


Fallout: The Winter Soldier

by megazorzz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Fallout (Video Games), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, All that good Fallout Stuff, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fallout, Angst, Basic caveats of Steve/Bucky stories, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Xenophobia, Cold War, Drug Use, Dystopia, End of Humanity, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Historical Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, James "Bucky Barnes"/Steve Rogers, M/M, Marvel Canon-Divergence, Mentions of past child abuse, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Mutated Animals, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Trauma, Raiders, Semi explicit description of blood, Semi explicit description of gore, Sterilization, Torture, Violence, Wasteland, Xenophobia, btw I lied, it gets pretty explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 112,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wakes up in the post-nuclear wasteland after 200 years of cryogenic sleep. The country he knew, the land he fought so hard to defend is simply gone. Bleary eyed and aching, Steve becomes entangled in the struggles of S.H.I.E.L.D., a fellowship of five settlements that have banded together for protection and survival. Nicholas Fury and Alexander Pierce recruit his aid for Project Insight, a mission to unearth and restore a powerful aircraft prototype, one that could forever ensure the security of S.H.I.E.L.D.</p><p>With such firepower, S.H.I.E.L.D. could safely wipe out entire bands of raiders, mutated wildlife and ruthless raiders. Added to the mix is a merciless assassin shrouded in mystery. His eyes are blue and familiar. </p><p>What other secrets lie beneath the wasteland sands?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

In an arid subterranean chamber, a small green light switched on, flickering in the dark. “Sleep term complete. Commencing thaw,” a small, tinny voice announced to the emptiness.

The metal chamber hissed open, letting cold nitrogen billow in the dark, illuminated only by fading control panels and cracked screens. A broad figure crumpled to the floor, taking in the stale air in long, wheezing breaths. The ground and ceiling began sorting themselves out as the man steadied himself against the rusted console, still heaving. He squinted in the dark. The air was silent, as if death itself floated in the dust. No planes soared overhead. No officers barked orders and the ricochet of gunfire had ceased. His ears still rang. He almost wished for the clamor of war, but thanked God that it seemed to be over for the time being.

He started to speak, but cold still lingered in his larynx. He spotted a glow stick nearby and cracked it. Slowly, the green glow grew to full strength. He gasped. The walls around him were crumbling in their decay. Rust crept along the cool, steel tables and ridged hinds of the computer monitors.

It looked like a train had steamed through, leaving shattered concrete and glass in its wake. This wasn't right. He could not recall why he had been put under. Pain streaked across the man’s brow as he wandered through the lab. The man dug through his memory, but came with nothing. He shivered.

“Bucky! Bucky, do you hear me?”

No response. “Bucky? Bucky, report!” Captain Steve Rogers called into his radio.

A warhead must have rattled the facility’s power grid. He turned a corner. Its cracked walls stretched out before him. He caught himself on the wall as he again lost his balance. A hatch on the far end of the hall proved stubborn. Its creaking rang through the empty hall. Once it gave in, Steve found a first-aid kit. He popped a dose of Rad-X and guzzled the bitter water contained in the small metal case; no telling what radiation, if any, lingered in the labs. He gagged but kept the water down.

He ascended the steps, which rattled underfoot and groped his way though the next floor. The glow stick’s light glinted off of a steel hull. He heard the soft whirring of a motor. A jolt of energy ran through his synapses and his muscles tensed. Suddenly the crack of rapid gunfire rang deafeningly through the metal hall. He ducked and rolled, keeping his shield up. Bullets glinted through the hall, embedding themselves in concrete above his shoulders.

Steve turned the corner and whipped his shield at the source of the gunfire. It keened through the air and crumpled the metal casing of the turret. He sprinted to the source and grabbed the turret’s barrel, bending it upward in a jagged motion. The machine choked and ceased fire, black smoke emptying into the air. He stood motionless, arms reeling from the sudden over-use. He waited for the stomping of boots, and militaristic barking, but no one came to investigate. The smoke cleared and in the green glow, he saw bodies scattered here and there, throughout the adjacent chamber. He inched closer, looking for signs of life.

He waved the glow stick near their heads. Dry skulls met his gaze. He recoiled against the wall. Crouching near the bodies once more, he confirmed that they were indeed only bone. Their clothing was stretched across hollow ribs, age having dissolved them almost entirely. A buzzing started in the back of his mind.

“Barnes report, over,” Steve, said into his headset. He switched on the receiver, but heard only the cool hiss of static. A bomb may have been set off in the wide chamber; it could have been a corrosive, Steve reasoned. They were brutal—flesh burned away almost immediately, leaving burns bone-deep. Steve’s finger found several bullet holes and dared not rule out gunfire.

His ears rang in the silence. He made out a route to the exit, hauling away rubble and concrete. He found two more bodies buried near the flight of stairs leading up. They were newer, and Steve was shocked that he didn’t smell them earlier. But they wore no uniform. One had two angry stripes of hair running across his scalp like a mohawk. The other had a short braid near the crown. Both wore leather overcoats covered in makeshift armor made from shreds of scrap metal and synthetic cords.

He took to the steps three at a time, the metallic footfalls as rapid as the beat of his heart. He came to a familiar passage.

Steve ran a finger along the jagged, eroded concrete and discovered more signs of battle: bodies, holes in the wall and the stench of death. Each set of bones was as terrifyingly novel as the last. No Russian uniforms, no United States military insignias, no Chinese characters. Attached to the ceilings were old security cameras and turrets, each one abraded and stripped, as if gleaners had come through and stripped them. He counted six turrets in all, and no longer wondered at the presence of so many corpses.

 The room was quiet as a tomb. If he focused, he could almost recall the echo of Bucky’s voice as he led him through the facility. He searched his memory, but couldn’t recall why they’d been on base in the first place, only that violence had broken out on base, that their own shooting their own. Perhaps they went to the labs for shelter, or to flush out a turncoat. He winced as he tried again and again to remember.

An image swam into view as he made his way up and up. Bucky had been on the other side of the glass as every extremity had grown cold, as the cryogenics blustered forth. “Steve, listen.” Bucky’s hand was planted on the glass. “Those bombs are gonna fall. I don’t got hope for humanity, but I got hope for you.”

Bucky’s lips mouthed more words Steve couldn’t place. The glass fogged over and he faded from view. Steve’s limbs ceased following orders and the world went dark. He heard faint crashing and then the cold of nothingness.

Steve shook the haunting visions from his mind and pressed on, in spite of the burning indignation of his muscles. The rooms seemed to close in on him, as if he were buried alive in the deep caverns of the ocean. His limbs still trembled and failed him as he made his trek. Only his blood vessels knew how long he was under. In spite of the struggle in his bones, he at last reached the exit. Light from up above seeped through its cracks like a bleeding wound.

Steve stepped over boulders of concrete, breaths coming heavy and desperate. He heard gusts of dry wind through the final hatch. His gloved hand trembled as he twisted the lever. The steel door swung open with a groan and blinding, dazzling light attacked his retinas.

Behind the door, lit up in sterile, foreboding sunlight lay a wasteland. Its scarred surface was littered with the skeletal remains of buildings, whose rafters swung forlornly in the breeze like beckoning, bony fingers. All was still save for the swirling debris and the ineffable flow of time. Doors were ripped off their hinges, gaping open like so many screaming mouths. And he saw no one. No doting mothers, no dads mowing lawns, no men in uniform or postmen or dog-walkers. Nothing met him except for a bitter wind and the whip of sand against his boots.

Steve’s breath died in his chest. The ground swayed beneath his red boots. He lost his footing and collapsed.

 

 


	2. Sanctuary

 

Steve watched the sunset as its last rays swept over the stretching, desolate earth. He sat, watching not the end of civilization, but the quiet horrors that followed. Hissing winds whipped into his eyes, but he remained aloof to their sting. Soon the sky faded from sickly yellows and reds and into inky night. His shield lay in the dust beside him.

As soon as darkness fell, he heard quiet, crunching footsteps. A sickly green glow illuminated a path down below and it approached at a slow, calculated pace. Steve groggily rose to his feet. Grip firm, jaw set, he eyed the light, unable to make out the figure behind the glow.

The light stopped a scant four yards away. “I don’t believe it,” a man’s voice uttered.

“Identify yourself,” Steve barked.

The voice chuckled solemnly. “You're Captain Steve Rogers.”

Steve’s muscles jerked into action, he readied his shield, eyes scanning what he could of the perimeter, taking note of each seemingly innocuous shifting of dirt. “Identify yourself!”

“Captain—“

“Are you Russian? Chinese?” Steve slid on his back heel, digging it into the sand, and raised his fist. “Too many have died already. I don’t plan on joining them.”

The man gently laid the flashlight down and ran a hand through thinning, brown hair. Arms raised, he steadily walked into his midst. “No one’s asking you to,” he said, dirt and soot smeared across his brow.

“You think this is funny? It may be quiet here, but the world’s at war.”

The man lowered his arms and shook his head. “A war’s raging alright,” he said, blue eyes cast wistfully to the corroding horizon, “but not the one you remember.”

Burning seized Steve’s stomach. “What’s your meaning?”

Seeing the terror settle in Rogers’ eyes, shifting like the ever-present dryness of the wastes, the man beckoned him with an open palm. “Captain Rogers, I am not your enemy. We can discuss this further in camp. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you need to trust me. We are not safe here.” He slowly reached for his holster. Steve bolted toward him and a gunshot rang loudly in his ears.

Steve had him pinned. He stared into the older man’s eyes, which were blown wide by surprise and pity. At his six, a heavy load crumpled to the ground, metal scraping against the rock. Steve loosened his grip and turned to assess source of the noise. The body lying at his back was worn and weary with nightmarish, barbaric tattoos peaking through makeshift armor. The steel shined dully in the light, covered by patches of rust and what seemed to be war paint.

On the rooftop a woman’s silhouette appeared, unmoving and wary. “Sorry, Coulson. Let one get away,” she called, her voice as cold as cloudless night. Coulson beckoned and she ably slid down the side of the building and jumped down to their feet.

“See, Captain? Allies,” she said, removing herself from the two men to approach the corpse.

Steve held out a hand and lifted “Coulson” to his feet. The man brushed the dirt off of his fatigues. “Do you trust us enough now?” he asked. “I think saving you a bullet-hole is a sign of good faith.”

“Please,” the woman added, “this pea-shooter couldn’t rip through a mole rat.” She ran a finger along the handgun’s barrel, and slid it into an empty holster on her hip.

“Quiet, agent,” Coulson commanded. He looked over his shoulder, eyes searching and cautious. “We need to get to a safe house.” His eyes focused on Steve. “I promise that we’ll fill you in on the state of things once we get home. We don't have time for formal introductions,” he stuck out a hand, "but I'm Phil Coulson. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." Steve took his hand cautiously and gave it a firm shake. Coulson retrieved the flashlight and started walking, knowing that Steve Rogers would have no choice but to follow.

The moon cast deep shadows along the cracked asphalt road. The woman trailed behind him and Coulson led. On occasion, the cracks of gunfire sounded across the valley and Coulson would signal them to halt. He would tilt his head and then wave them on.

He stared at Coulson’s back. He couldn’t find any recognizable insignias, but he recognized the camouflage patterns as American and his gait as distinctly military. The name didn’t register, nor his face. For all he knew, Coulson could be a sleeper agent, one who in the blink of an eye would turn traitor. Steve kept a firm grip on his shield as he looked over his shoulder.

The woman behind him didn't even give a name, only a cold, calculating stare. She was garbed in a plain black jumpsuit and soft-soled shoes for silent maneuvering. She walked how the great beauties in his day did—elegant and imposing. She ran her fingers through her red hair, eyes locking with his. “Something on your mind?” she asked, vaguely hollow cheeks almost suggesting a smile, but not quite starting one.  Steve didn’t answer.

“There it is.” Coulson pointed to a decrepit house, notable only because all four sides were still standing. He looked at Steve, fondness showing through his practiced frown. Definitely military. “I guess I should have mentioned that ‘safe house’ was a bit of a euphemism.”

“I’ve shacked up in worse,” Steve said. “Let’s get inside.”

After the woman picked the lock, the door swung to reveal a rotting living room. Decay claimed the books on the shelf and cracks crept along the walls. Steve’s heart still raced. He clenched his fists, mouth twisting into a scowl. The bombs had dropped after all, he thought bitterly.

The woman walked over and picked out an inconspicuous book, turning to the last unsoiled pages. She scribbled something down in short, curt gestures and returned it to the shelf.

“We should be safe here until morning. We will head out at 0500 hours on the dot. If we pace ourselves, we should reach HQ at 1100,” Coulson said as he dug in his satchel. He pulled out a few cans. “Here’s the good stuff, Captain.” He tossed a can of beans to him. “You’ll have to eat it cold. When the sun sets, this house remains dark.”

“I…I understand.” He waited for their story, an explanation for their clandestine appearance and the wasteland that lay beyond the houses decrepit wall, but received nothing save for the occasional worried glance from Coulson and stark indifference from the woman. He was too exhausted to ask and the cold beans did little to revive him. As far as he was concerned he was alone and perhaps still in danger. Only the adrenaline stirred by the possibility of betrayal sustained him as they spent the last hours hours of night in their respective rooms.

Coulson watched Steve while the woman sharpened her blade. He looked consumed by thought. Outside, the howling of the winds was cold and feral, visiting places no longer civil and no longer American. He took his leave and took a room on the second floor. Steve stared at the dilapidated wallpaper as he tried to sleep. Mold couldn’t have cultivated itself that quickly. If he was right, if nuclear war had at last broken out, then it must have been some time ago.

The evidence was overwhelming; his time asleep had not been brief, but he had no idea of the scale and the thought terrified him to the core. Steve had never heard the name Coulson during his time on base and the man wouldn’t answer any of his questions. No regiment, no commanding officers, his only words were patient reminders to rest and recalibrate. The scrape of metal against metal from the woman's corner downstairs did little to calm his nerve.

The blanket was damp so Steve eschewed it and lay facing the door. Sleep dropped into a heavy sleep in spite of the lingering paranoia. At least he had some small reprieve: the two guards downstairs wanted him alive. For now, that would have to suffice.

Through misty sleep he saw Bucky’s face, framed by the skeletal remains of the base. His smile was large and pugnacious, as it always was. The surrounding infrastructural erosion failed to get his attention and flames bloomed in all quarters. Steve reached out and felt Bucky's familiar stubble. Bucky still smiled as his skin peeled back in bloody strips. A silent flash erupted behind Steve, immeasurable heat consuming Bucky whole, leaving Steve untouched. Steve groped for Bucky’s shoulders but grasped moldering ashes.

Heavy blows landed against the front door, jolting Steve from his nightmare. Violent pounding resounded through the house. The woman suddenly appeared in his doorframe, barely illuminated by the low moon. “Good, you’re up.” She withdrew her blade. “Things are about to get rough. I'm going to round the outside perimeter and catch them from behind.” She took a running start toward the window and swung a leg over the windowsill. She held out a hand and Steve took it, extending his reach downward, releasing her a few meters from the ground outside. She landed like a cat and crept around the corner.

Steve grabbed his shield and donned his helmet. He bounded out the door and ran to the bannister, shield at the ready. Four men burst through the door, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. He whipped his shield at the two in front. It bounced from their temples, landing with sickening cracks. The remaining two jumped into cove and returned fire. Steve withdrew to a corner as bullets riddled the wall above him. Two more voices joined their cackling laughter.

A metallic thwack and slicing steel rang out above the gunfire. Steve dove down the stairs, landing on his feet. The woman was a whirlwind of limbs and vicious strikes. She ducked beneath a machete blade and swung a leg at his ankles. As the man fell she swung a fist up into his jaw sent the bleeding gunman flying. She tossed his pistol toward Steve. Two more assailants encroached on the woman and Steve surgically planted two bullets. She flew up, thighs wrapping around the last assailant’s crude helmet in the doorway. She wrenched her hips and his body crumpled beneath her.

She rolled back onto the ground, sweat glistening in the moonlight. She ran over to one of the windows, keeping low. 

“We aren’t out of this yet,” she muttered. She was still for a moment. They listened. “They don’t know who came out of this alive,” she whispered. “But they’re gonna fire on anything that moves.”

“No discipline. Weak aim. Seems like they’re addled,” Steve noted. “Half of their bullets went over my head."

“Right. Probably wasteland junkies. Dime a dozen.” She motioned for him to follow, and they stuck close to the shadows as they crept outside.

“Where’s Coulson?”

“Right behind you,” Coulson said. If not for his training, Steve would have jumped.

“What’d you see on the roof?” the woman asked.

“A half dozen are waiting for the first hit squad to emerge. They are anxious to see some blood.”

“And they will,” she said, cool and slick.

They crept up the rocks. Steve squinted in the low light. Five men stood on the bleak horizon, guns shaking in their hands, their bullets eager to meet flesh. Their armor clinked as they stretched, rough metallic edges grinding together. Steve saw the barbaric streaks of paint along their torsos. Some of it looked like blood, but it was hard to tell in the diluted glow of the moon.

“Raiders,” Phil said. The woman had a cherry bomb in hand. She pitched it over the cliff. It sent a large crack echoing up the hill. The men jumped into action, spraying gunfire at the dust, not one stopping to adjust his aim or look down the sights, as if the spray of bullets alone were enough to excite them. They whooped and hollered as the spray of gunfire lit up their wide mouths.

Soon they stopped to reload and the woman sprinted out, sporadic gunfire missing her by wide margins. Phil followed, motioning to Steve. He held his shield up. The woman looked back and nodded. He whipped his shield. It ricocheted off of a boulder and into a raider’s jaw, knocking him down the jagged slope. The woman drew back her fist and sent one flying after him. Phil kicked another’s leg and sent him tumbling face first into the rock. The man’s breath hissed and sputtered and Phil sent one cold shell through the back of his skull.

Steve winced. Such cruel, unrestrained violence. No questions, no prisoners, no blinking, nothing to guide the killing except the rush of survival. Phil turned to him and nodded, smile not quite creeping across his face. This wasteland was a battlefield, but not a theater of war. Steve's innards gurgled.

Coulson reached down and picked up what looked like an inhaler. “Jet.” He tossed it to Steve. “Looks like you were right. Addled. Your eye is as good as ever.”

“Jet?” Steve rushed up to him. “I want to know what has happened. Right now. Who do you report to? What in the hell is going on?”

Phil didn’t shake or cower. “You will know. I promise you that. But that has to wait. If you want to live long enough to find out, then we move. Now.” The dusty light of dawn started to break out on the horizon.

Steve could only nod, and soon their boots were crunching across the desert. The mysterious woman was again at his back and Phil at his front. Whether they escorted a valued ally or a prisoner, Steve didn’t know. He didn’t care to take both of them on, though he could. What information they had to offer him about the surrounding destruction was too valuable to risk now. He needed to glean everything he could in order to find Bucky, that much was certain.

Steve looked up at the clear sky and felt an ominous weight sink in his gut. In spite of his guardians he was alone.

 

\+ + +

           

A gate’s high metallic peak caught Steve’s eye. Phil chuckled. “It isn’t much, but it’s great to see it again.” The woman scoffed over his shoulder. Steve looked over and saw a dying smile on her face. He nearly smiled too, at her near-show of humanity

When they neared, an armored guard approached. Steve recognized the power armor. U.S. military insignias were still intact on its breast. He sprinted over and saluted. “Captain Steve Rogers reporting in. I request a line of contact to Colonel Jackson.”

The man behind the mask shook his head in bewilderment. “Who ‘da hell is l Kernel Jack-sin?”

“Then, please—“

Phil’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Just wait, Captain. You’re going to speak with our commander in just a moment.”

“About time,” Steve muttered. He removed his helmet and ran his cleaner hand through his blond hair. At last, he would have some answers, some bearings.

Phil waved to a man high in the rafters and the gate swung open like an omen. A great crash sounded and slowly the gate started to swing open. The doors shoveled errant piles of gravel aside, revealing walls of corrugated steel, shanties and ruin. Onlookers, garbed in various rags and gathered materials had gathered around as Steve was corralled over the gate's threshold. Steve’s mouth hung open. No amount of resourcefulness could have built a town in so little time, and again the looming inevitability bloomed like a mushroom cloud.

A group of children rushed over to him, some leery and others beguiled. From a steep slope, a man in black approached them. As he came near, Steve spotted an eye-patch and a cautious smirk. “Captain America?” “Is it really him?” “Can I hold your shield?” the children chimed.

“Well I’ll be damned, Phil,” the man with the eye patch shouted. “Didn’t know you could raise the dead.”

"He's alive and well, Fury, just as I said he'd be," Coulson said, smile wide." 

Steve pushed through the ragged crowd, eyes burning. He came face to face to the man called “Fury.”

“’The dead?’” He clenched his fists and his sinewy frame went rigid. He widened his stance. Something took over--panic, fear, confusion all at once. Steve grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him inches off the ground. The man with the eye patch only grinned. Behind him, he heard Phil shout. Four gunshots rang and Steve’s vision blurred. The ground met his face, and he caught the beginnings of a large scuffle before his vision went dark.

 

\+ + +

 

His head was swimming. Murmurs wafted through the haze—other drinkers, yes. He was with Bucky at the bar, back when he barely came up to his shoulder. He hadn’t felt this light-headed in years. The light was warm and soft. Steve had his new shirt on and Bucky, his threadbare jacket. Steve wanted to make him return the shirt, to make Bucky put the money toward a new suit. But boy, did he ever smile when he gifted Steve the shirt. Steve reluctantly accepted it, in the end.

Steve turned and scanned the bar. He thought he heard his name. Bucky assuaged his guilt, saying that he’d get a new set of shirts too and that Steve needed them more anyway. He talked him into a second pint, even though the first one left his knees wobbly. He stroked the back of Steve’s hand with rough, calloused fingers.

From the shadowy corner, another voice uttered his name, interrupting his fond reverie. Steve turned on his stool toward the source of the voice. “Do you have something to say to me?” He dropped down from the barstool, Bucky failing to grab his elbow. He marched over to the corner. “What is it? Go on, I'm all ears.” Bucky remonstrated him from the bar, telling Steve to ignore the jackass.

The figure in the corner rose, rusted armor rattling. He had a good sixteen inches on him. The figure smiled, revealing rotten, jagged teeth. He reeled back. A quick slam sent Steve reeling to the cold floor.

Steve inhaled sharply, eyes adjusting to the cold, dim light, which cast harsh stripes across his chest. He looked at the source, and a lone figure sat silhouetted against it. He turned and flicked a switch on his arm. The Pipboy computer strapped to his forearm switched on and the green glow of the screen added to the disorienting light. “The Captain’s awake,” the man said into it.

Steve sat up on the dirty cot, head still floating on the sedatives. “Where am I?” he slurred.

“County jail,” the man answered, lighting a cigarette that illuminated his blue eyes and rough stubble. He ran a gloved hand through his sandy hair and looked at him with cultivated blankness.

“You’re the man from the gate,” Steve said. “You know Coulson.”

“Didn’t think Captain America would lose control like that,” the man grumbled, crestfallen.

The guard was silent, save for the soft tap of his nails against his Pipboy's screen.

Steve stood, getting his bearings, and the guard’s eyes followed him. His hand rested on the holster of his gun. Steve gripped the iron bars. A rickety door opened and shut in the foyer and heavy boots echoed down the hall. The guard stood at attention as the man with the eye patch scrutinized Steve.

“Why don't you head down to Lulu's for a drink.” he ordered. “The Captain and I need a little privacy.”

“Yessir.” Barton saluted and left them. He eyed Steve and sat down, emanating a domineering force that Steve had no choice but to acknowledge. He nodded toward a stool in the corner of his cell and Steve sat, posture impeccable.

“It’s good to see that you calmed down,” Fury said, flicking the cap of his lighter on and off.

“I was plenty calm.”

“Barton didn’t seem to think so.” Steve felt his cold, calculating gaze. “But I’m not here to split hairs.” Fury lit a cigarette. “I’m here to help you get a handle on our little predicament.” He took a long drag. “What do you know about the current state of affairs?”

Steve’s throat tightened up and his fists clenched the fabric at his thighs, but he refused to break eye contact, in case he was a prisoner instead of an asset. “I know the bombs dropped. It must have been China...didn't think it would come to this,” Steve said quietly.

“And?”

“Everything's in disarray. It could be anarchy, now. Certainly looks like it," Steve said, eyeing Fury.

“And?”

“And you know who I am. Those kids did too. And Coulson,” Steve said, voice gathering the scattered shards of strength that were diligently returning to him one by one. His magnificent immune system had filtered out the last of the tranquilizers. “I’m important to you. Or valuable.”

Fury’s chuckle was deep and bitter. “Very astute. Though, the part about the bombs falling is pretty obvious.” He stood up and walked slowly to Steve’s cell, the smoke of his cigarette dancing in the air like the mystery that floated thick in the air between them. “I hate to do this Captain Steve Rogers, but I’m about to drop another one on you—so to speak.”

Steve gathered himself and gripped the bars, face inches away from the burning tip.

“What year do you think it is?” Fury asked, enunciating every word.

“Last thing I remember…it was October, 2077.”

Fury shook his head. “It’s October, you got that part right.” Fury sucked the last ash from the cigarette and crushed the butt underfoot. “The year is 2277. You’ve been asleep for a long time, Cap.”

 

 


	3. A Fan

           

“Any peep out of Rogers?” Fury asked, striking a match and lighting his twentieth cigarette that evening. A dim, yellow bulb bleakly illuminated the room. Shafts of dying sunlight extended through the cracks in the corrugated steel that patched up the crumbling walls.

“Not a word,” Coulson replied. “He’s still in shock.” Coulson cast a steely gaze across the desk. “I thought we had agreed to break the news to him gently.”

Fury chuckled. “'Gently?’ A bit difficult to do that, don’t you think?” He took a long drag. “There isn’t anything gentle about the world we live in, Phil--not now and certainly not two centuries ago. I agreed to inform him, nothing more.”

“You had him locked in a cell with an armed guard. You strolled in when he was barely in his senses and told him that everyone he’s ever known…Jesus, Nick.”

Fury pointed at Phil. “I wasn’t the one who ordered him to be put down. That was your call.”

“He was panicking. I defused the situation. You poured gasoline on the fire”

“Phil, try—really try—to see it from my perspective. All the sugar-coating in the wasteland wouldn't have lessened the blow. Apart from that, Rogers is a soldier, first and foremost...He knows the score. People die—sometimes one at a time and sometimes all at once.” He flicked the spent cigarette butt. “Besides, he isn’t locked up now.”

Coulson sighed and swept a hand through his hair. “No, he’s just holed up. He hasn’t left the guesthouse since he went in. We've been asking to speak with him. He's locked the door.”

“Then don’t ask his permission. If he’s as strong as all your comic strips and history books say he is, then he can man-up and speak with us for ten damn minutes.”

Phil stood up to take his leave. “I know. Just let me handle this, Nick.”

Fury stood up and surveyed the settlement through the dirty, cracked window. “Fine. Fine. You talk to him. Be ready to report to me afterwards. If he wants to help, that would be fan-fucking-tastic. If not, he’ll either have to haul scrap, or hit the road. We have enough problems without us having to coach someone who can’t play by the new rules.”

“I understand.” Coulson shut the door behind him and stepped out in the brisk, dusty air. Fury’s office had a clear line of sight to the guesthouse. He walked down the path past the makeshift bar. He waved to Cheryl. “How’s the Captain? Haven’t seen him all day.”

“He’s helping us plan a reconnaissance operation. Top secret stuff.” Phil’s eyes were clear and unblinking, setting his lie in stone.

“Well, you tell him that if he wants to stop by the bar, his first drink is on the house.”

“Will do.” 

The guesthouse was a small, squat building. Though the bombs left the building miraculously intact, many of the settlers had preferred to construct their own homes, some believing the place to be haunted. There was a ghost in there all right, but he was flesh and blood.

Barton sat in the gravel beside the wooden door. “Any luck?” Coulson asked.

He spat and hauled himself up, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to talk to him, but he’s been quiet. He’s still inside, though. I can hear his pacing.”

Phil put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “You’re looking a bit rough. Get any sleep last night?”

Clint leaned into him. “Not after I saw the look on his face. It must have been like dying all over again. Couldn’t shake it. But,” Clint’s eyes searched Phil’s, “do you really believe he’s Captain America? In the flesh?”

“He is. I’ve seen him fight. It’s exactly like in the comics. He’s amazing,” Coulson said. Captain America's shield was an unusual weapon. He wasn't sure if even he could replicate the technique from his vast documentation.

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and then crossed his arms. He looked up at the high broken window, the small one over the bathroom. Over the course of the day Clint had seen the man wander back and forth, eyes beleaguered and searching. “Wow,” Clint offered simply.

Phil returned the grasp. “You head back to the house. I’ll join you there soon, okay?”

“I’ll leave you half a Brahmin steak.” Clint kissed him on the cheek and shoved off, leaving Coulson to plan his entry. Most of the windows had long been boarded up, the back door as well. He could try kicking the door down, but he was certain the Captain would interpret that as an attack. The last thing Phil wanted was to corner him.

After considering all of his options, he simply knocked. Over the low groan of a nearby Brahmin, he heard shuffling in the northern part of the building. He backed away as the door creaked open. A pair of eyes ringed with sleeplessness studied him through the tiny opening.

“Hello, Rogers. Do you mind if I step in?”

After a long silence, the door opened wide and Steve waved him in. Phil followed him through the kitchen, eyeing a dismantled rifle lying near a pile of bullets. His shield was propped up on the remains of a coffee table, blood drying around the rims. “The rifle needed cleaning,” Steve said. “I haven’t gotten to my shield yet.”

A nearby cabinet lay open, soiled and scarred books resting at its base, none legible through the soot and grime, but all desperately perused. Rogers sat on the musty couch, rigid and overly formal, his military posture the last sense of order to be had on the wasteland.

Phil sat across from him. “I know this all must be difficult for you. If it means anything, I'm sorry for your loss.”

“How could you possibly know what I've lost?”

Phil leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know more about you than you think.” He took a deep breath and reached into his back pocket. He unfurled a musty comic and offered it to the wounded man. “I guess you could call me a fan.”

Steve took the comic into his hands. The book was thin in his hands, time having had yellowed and eroded its delicate pages. 

“So it's true...I can't go back. H-how?” Steve face collapsed into his hands. The comic crumpled in his formidable grip. His mind was a bitter deluge of memories. He couldn’t breathe through their swarm. A great tremor ran cold through his lungs and larynx and escaped his mouth in fits.

“I watched you while you were asleep, back at the cryogenics lab.”

Steve shifted. His fingers trembled as he brushed the sweaty bangs from his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Phil leaned forward and spoke slowly. “I knew when you’d wake up. Sorry, that sounds creepy when I say it like that. I guess you say I'm a collector.”

A spark flitted in Steve’s eyes. “What do you collect?”      

Phil nodded toward the comic and Steve returned to them, examining the pages of his exploits, some of them beautified for press, moral grays washed in black and white, and Bucky Barnes erased almost entirely. “I remember this op,” he said softly. “Russia, 2074. We were gathering intelligence about their nuclear weapons program. They hid them well. We only managed to get a couple of sources. It was just enough for the U.N. to condemn Russia.” He chuckled bitterly. “I guess we can say with confidence that they had more up their sleeve, huh?”

Phil paused, not deciding if he should smile. He took the comic back into his hands. “I’ve had this particular issue since I was a kid.” He folded it and placed it in his breast pocket. Steve furrowed his brow. “Don’t worry. I have four more copies of this issue back at my place. Near mint condition.”

“So,” the corners of Steve’s mouth twitched, “you go around the wasteland, finding my old comics?”

Phil nodded. “Among other things: guns, ammo, computer parts. You see, when I was born, everything was in ruins. I’ve never seen a plane in the sky, never picked apples or went to school. Never sat at an anthill with a magnifying glass—you do that today and you’d probably lose a limb or two. And we never had cable, so, obviously, I missed your Saturday morning cartoons entirely. Still working on that.” Phil sighed.

“I guess you really can’t call this place ‘America’ anymore, either. Not without audacious amounts of hope or delusion…But I know what America used like, if only a little. Through comics, the remnants of old history books, the occasional radio broadcasts that buzz in and out. In a way, you were sort of my teacher. And not just mine. Your comics have wide appeal.”

Steve was silent. His eyes welled up, but stubbornly held on to their tears.

“So you can imagine my massive shock when I found you in that cryo pod. I nearly had a heart attack.” Phil paused and pondered. “Must have been about three years ago now. I’ve since settled down in Sanctuary. Nick Fury and I go way back.”

“How did you know when I would wake up?”

“I had some help, an obnoxious engineer who lives around these parts. I paid him to get me past the security drones and unseal the doors. I didn’t go in thinking I’d find a legend—just some good scrap and maybe some medicine. He thought you were dead. He liked your shield, said it had some unusual properties he wanted to study further, but even he couldn’t get your cell to open. He said it was on a timer, but he told me when to come back if I wanted a historically important popsicle. I’ve been checking in on you ever since, keeping the facility wired, waiting for the timer to count down.”

The sun glinted off of a broken mirror as it set behind the high walls of Sanctuary. The room was cast in bronze light. “What do you want with me?” Steve asked.

A pause from Phil. “Nick Fury wants to speak with you, as soon as possible. Urgent matters are afoot.”

Steve’s hands massaged the back of his neck. “Give me until the morning.”

“May I ask why?”

Steve stood up, looming over the balding man. “Tell Fury that we speak tomorrow morning and not sooner. If he’s thinking about some sort of alliance, then I need to sleep on it. Your welcome wagon didn’t exactly leave the best impression,” Steve said, crossing his arms.

Phil cracked his knuckles and rose. “I’m gonna have to do a bit of talking.” He couldn’t help but smile when he saw the hardened resolve on Captain America’s face. “But you’ll have until morning. And after that, you’re free to go, if you so wish. Let me assure you that you are not our prisoner, Captain.” 

Phil stuck out his hand. He was elated when Captain America took it, giving it a firm shake. Phil stood, shrugged on his flak jacket and turned to exit when Steve called his name.

“When you came to check in on me…were there any other chambers?”

Phil paused for a moment.

“There was a second chamber, now that I think of it. Yours was secluded and I didn’t make it a priority to visit the other one...But it was empty when I first arrived at the facility.” He turned away and put his hand on the knob. “I hope that helps.”

“It does. Thank you.” Coulson took his leave and Steve began preparing for a trek. Phil may be on his side--he at least pities him--but Fury has yet to reveal his intentions and, as far as Steve was concerned, he still felt like a prisoner.

 

\+ + +

 

In the cover of night, Steve slipped on his helmet and slid out the back door. A few lanterns hung listlessly, casting little light. Steve bounded behind a corner and peaked through to the other side. He had a good vantage point, save for a few buildings and the natural slope the town rested on.

Three guards made their rounds along the wall’s perimeter, each about a hundred meters from one another. One was limping and last in the long line. He moved slower than the others—probably an injury from some misadventure.

Steve waited in the shadows, carefully concealing his shield, until the limping guard moved past his position. He slid behind him and carefully squeezed the guard’s windpipe, easing him to the ground before bounding onto the rusted scaffolding. Nimbly sliding through the crossing, disorderly bars, he made it out onto the other side.

From far up on the hill, Fury watched him through the smoky glass. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

Steve crouched down and scanned the horizon. The moonlight cast the landscape into otherworldly gloom. He saw the landmarks he noted and followed his compass and soon he was back on the trail to the facility.

In the distant, over the crunch of broken glass and concrete, he heard the distant hisses of whatever life called the wasteland home. Eyes burned into him at every turn. A foot scraped the gravel at his rear. He readied his shield and crouched down pivoting on his right foot. Nothing. He’s trained for anything and everything, but the air was disorienting, the lay of the land unfamiliar. The remaining buildings taunted them in their ruin.

The fourth time he stopped to re-acclimate himself, another minute scrape caught his ear. Every instinct alerted him to a presence, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch it. The lack of food and sleep blotted out his normally sharp senses and he felt as if he were running solely on desperation and fumes. But something was bearing down on him. At every turn he encountered nothing but the unnatural still of the surrounding ruins.

Behind a large boulder he stopped. He was sure to make his trail evident this time. He unhitched his shield and lightly tossed it. It met the ground rolling and traveled to the far side of the boulder. He heard the softest steps to his right and swiftly lifted himself up on the rock. He vaulted over, flying over to the other side and slamming into a smaller body.

The red-haired woman smirked beneath him. “I thought that Captain America could cover his tracks better than that. Didn’t even hide Greg’s body either—poor guy can’t catch a break.” She frowned, letting her eyes catch the moonlight. “So far, you’re not living up to your reputation.”

“What are you doing here?” Steve demanded.

“I hate to be trite, but I could ask you the same question.” She jerked her arm once, but Steve had her pinned.

“You were awfully quiet on the way to Sanctuary. Who are you?”

“Would you believe me if I said The Tsar of Russia?”

He gripped her arm and he felt her wince.

“My name is Natalia Romanova. My friends call me ‘Natasha.’ Not that I have many at the moment.”

“A Russian? I knew it. You _are_ a spy. You’re Fury's eyes.”

“I’ve been called worse and I’ve worked for worse employers, but you have it completely wrong.”

“Two hundred years ago, the Russians bombed the United States, killing millions. Killing,” his face crumpled and he couldn’t finish. She seized the moment and jabbed his ribs, sending pain through his right side. She cast his arm aside and slid from his grasp, stepping out of his reach.

“Do I look 200 to you? You know that sounds ludicrous, right? There’s no USSR anymore, no United States, no China.” She met his gaze and found his eyes faltering and his shield arm shaking with rage. “ Who would I be feeding secrets to, anyway? Fire ants? All I want to do is survive. And I am here to help you.”

“What is it with you people and ants?” Steve muttered.

"Exactly my point,” Natasha said, slowly side stepping Steve, forcing his back to the boulder, eyes cautious and piercing, “You don’t know what’s out here.” As soon as she took a step forward, the shield’s edge was at her throat. She put up her hands, calculating gaze refusing to break from his.

“I can handle myself,” he said.

Her breathing was steady and her face stoic and blank. “I don’t remember reading about any technical degrees in your curriculum vitae,” she said, tilting her head. “I know where you’re going. I can help you get in.”

“Not a chance. If you think for one second that—“

Natasha hushed him. Both went silent, practically feeling the skittering vibrate against their skin. “Are you light on your feet, soldier?”

A large stinger whipped through the air, embedding itself in the rock. Steve looked over his shoulder. Six beady eyes stared out at him. He kicked the monster’s face, boosting himself onto the rock. Hissing surrounded him. Claws and stingers intermingled to form a wave of crawling, writhing bodies. He made out their stingers’ shapes. Giant black scorpions were creeping up the rock, encroaching on his position, claws snapping violently.

Natasha bounded away, ducking beneath stingers and stepping on pincers. He froze, staring at the horrific monstrosities. Their cold eyes returned the gaze, snapping their claws and readying their stingers to strike.

A scorpion forward and clashed with his shield. Steve jumped back further on the boulder. He swung wide, crushing one scorpion’s head while kicking another away. She quickly scaled the boulder and pulled out a lighter. His shield deflected three more swift strikes, but they were quickly outnumbering him.

“Rogers, head's up!” Natasha yelled. His eyes darted around and found her silhouette, whose hand clutched a bundle. A lit fuse flickered from one end. Another stinger pierced the rock near his left foot. “On your six, Captain! Keep their attention, I only have one shot at this! On three! One, two,” Steve turned and found a streetlamp jutting out of the asphalt. “Three!” He leapt and grabbed onto the pole.

A sinister claw clutched a bundle of dynamite. Steve swung hard and vaulted behind a wrecked car. He crouched, shield covering his head and shoulders. A giant blast of fire and smoke erupted on the opposite side, lighting up the night in flame. Flecks of flesh and carapace bounced off of his shield. The wasteland was quiet once more.

Before he could regain his senses, Natasha’s voice was in his ear. “Not bad for a fossil,” she teased. She stood and dusted herself off. “There, I helped you out. Believe me now?”

“What was that?”

“Well, it _was_ a radscorpion nest. Now it’s a hole. But no time for 20 questions, we have to get going. We just advertised our position to every junkie, thug and deathclaw within a five-mile radius.” She continued on the road and looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

She held out her hand and he took it.

"What on Earth is a deathclaw?" 

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Natasha said with a cold smile. 

 

\+ + +

 

They approached the building from the opposite side, Natasha leading Steve to a more elaborate entrance for the lab’s former personnel.

“If the doors were secured, why did I see bodies down there?” Steve asked. Natasha pushed the “enter” key and the thick metal door wheezed open.

“This place has been abandoned for centuries. Others got here before Coulson did, but not all of them were as observant,” Natasha said, lighting a glow stick. She waved it to the left and found a second console, glowing dimly in the dark, forbidding hall. She punched in a code, “Some can get past the door. Not everyone can get past the sentries. They must have armed themselves once the V.I.P. cryo pod was occupied.” She held out a small cloth to Steve. “Spit.”

“What for?”

“Just humor me.” He spat on the strip of fabric and she inserted it into a small tube near the console. “Now you’re in the DNA club too. You’re welcome.” A mechanic whirring reverberated in the darkness. A small light blinked red, then yellow, then green. “State of the art security.” Still, Steve approached the unit with caution, his previous altercations still fresh in his mind.

"Why spend so much time watching me?”

“Coulson wanted to meet his hero. Fury wanted to make an investment,” she replied coolly. Steve tensed at the word. It was cold and sterile, but he’s spoken with Coulson; he seemed to be a warm, caring man, but Steve has been deceived before. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone took a chance on you,” Natasha added. "All we're asking for is the same courtesy.

Steve decided to change the subject. “What was in it for you? You seem to know Coulson and you've obviously been here before.”

“I owed Coulson and Barton a favor.” She did not elaborate. “If memory doesn’t serve, Barton’s the man who pumped you full of tranquilizers.”

Steve saw Barton outside his door yesterday, either guarding or genuinely inquisitive, he did not know. They carefully stepped over the skeletal bodies. “I remember these guys,” she said. “The first time Coulson came down here, he left the door open. A couple of drug-crazed lunatics thought they had the jump on us.”

She strolled through the dark halls as if she were walking through the park, lips quietly pursed. Soon they reached the cryogenics labs. “Why, Bucky?” he murmured under his breath.

“Huh?”

Steve rubbed shook his head. “Nothing. Come on.” Steve led the way into the lab. His pod still remained ajar. Over on the far wall, he spotted the faded maps.

“What about you? Why did you need to return here so badly?” Natasha said, crossing her arms.

“Just wait,” Steve said, holding up a palm to allay Natasha.

Something clicked in his mind. The hallway flickered between ruination and the memory of it new and crisp. He jogged down the corridor and planted his hands on the door. Through the cracked bulletproof glass, he spotted a pod in the corner. A screen flickered near him and Steve examined it. “It’s locked. Can you try it?”

Natasha sighed and crouched down, tearing open a panel at its base. Steve tensed. He imagined Bucky frozen behind the glass, eyes closed, sleeping through eternity and waking up to this nightmare. He crouched down to observe. Natasha was busy teasing the wires.  

Sparks erupted from the fuse box and the door swung open with a laborious creak. Steve approached the pod, whose surface was striated and shattered. It was empty. Natasha saw how he grew still and pensive, taking that as her cue to interrogate the nearby computer.

“How long was this pod active? When did it open?” Steve asked, voice low.

Her fingers graced the keyboard. Lines of green text flooded the screen—data logs. “It doesn’t say, but someone was definitely in there. The remaining records have warnings that the pod didn’t thaw properly. The process had been interrupted somehow.” She nodded her head at the cracks and broken glass. “I’m no expert, but it looks like someone forced it open.”

Steve balanced himself against the wall. He took the glow stick and held it in the pod. He couldn’t tell if it was blood or rust that lined the interior. “Was he still alive?”

Natasha turned to him. “Vital signs were stable until the interruption, but it’s impossible to say what happened afterwards.” She went to another monitor. She quickly typed in a password, eyes scanning through the automated records. “I can’t find any dates of extraction, a lot of information is missing. The computers don't seem to be in bad condition, though.” She cocked her head. “Interesting.”

Both of Steve’s hands were on the wall. Bucky never promised he’d always be there, not because he couldn't keep his word, but because everything he ever said was a promise: seeing Steve before he shipped off to bootcamp, surviving Alaska, never letting his eye wander to another. He couldn’t bear to gaze at the pod.

A computer beeped loudly behind him. Steve saw her standing in front of another screen, crouched down. She spied him over her shoulder and slipped a small hard drive into her pocket.

“I thought you came here to help me.”

“I did. I helped myself as well. Win-win, two birds with one stone and all that.”

“How can I trust you if you insist on keeping secrets?” he asked, looming over her.

“Maybe it just takes too much for you to trust someone. You should think about lowering your standards.” She twisted a knob on her Pipboy. “It’s still too late to head back safely. The real beasts come out at about now. We should rest.” She took a hard left out of the room and down the corridor. Three musty cots remained in the medical bay. “You trust me enough to get some shuteye?”

“I’ll keep the first watch,” Steve said.

She shook her head and lay on the cot. Steve sat on the steps outside of the makeshift camp, eyes staring out into the dark once more. He blinked twice and then promptly dozed off from sheer exhaustion.

He dreamt that he and his apartment were still small. Dark whirling shapes wandered aimlessly up and down the street outside, never leaving his block. He had two small steaks in the oven. Bucky had said he was catching a drink with his buddies from the docks and then he’d be home. He sold a half a dozen drawings to a magazine—mostly men in uniform—and he wanted to celebrate.

He looked out the window once more. The shadows seemed to congregate on his stoop, but he paid them no mind. Soon Bucky would be back home and his mouth would curl at the corners and he’d run a hand through Steve’s blond hair and whisper into his ear. Steve checked the clock and the hands are spinning at a break neck pace. A shadow peaks over the windowsill. Smoke bursts from the oven, setting off the smoke alarm.

The hands spun and spun. Steve rushed to grab his coat—he needed to find Bucky. The steaks were on fire. He sprinted to the door and the metal knob seared into his flesh. Flame licked at his ankles from beneath the crack. He rushed to the windows and threw them open. The dark shapes burned his throat like smoke. The sky was wreathed in flames. And just at the end of the block was Bucky, his smile wide and beckoning, hair slicked back and shoes polished.

Steve jumped as another glow stick was cracked in the dank ruins. “You look like you just saw a ghost,” she commented quietly.

“I’m fine. Let’s get out of here,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes. Natasha’s face was calculated and cold, but Steve caught the last glimmers of pity just as she pushed them out.

 


	4. Acclimation

           

They were silent on the journey back to Sanctuary, save for the crush of gravel beneath their boots. Intermittently, Steve would look over his shoulder making sure Natasha still followed and that she did not follow too closely. She met his suspicious gaze with an irked gaze. She threw no remonstrations his way. His paranoia was now stale to her. More than once, he saw her tense and stop in her tracks, hand on the hilt of her blade and eyes intently scanning the horizon. Steve heard nothing except the dust swirling in the wind when it dawned on him. She possessed nightmares of her own.

When Sanctuary’s walls crested the hill, Natasha at last spoke. “What are you going to do now?”

Steve frowned and turned to address the gates. 

“Fury has something in store for me. What else can I do? I don’t know what’s out there, after all,” he said with a bitter smile. But he knew what wasn’t.

She tucked her red hair behind her ears. “Mercenaries are always in demand. The pay is good. You get to travel, see new parts of the wasteland. You’d make a pretty penny.” Steve glared at her and she shrugged him off. “Blame the man, not the gun, right?”

“I won’t be someone’s tool,” Steve spat and balled up his fists..

“I thought as much. That's beneath you. I’m sure you’ve never made a gray decision in your life,” she replied coolly. “Nothing’s changed, Steve, just the weather.” She threw him a dismissive glance as she strode off.  She gave a piercing whistle and Barton signaled the guards down below.

Before long the metal gates cracked open and skid along the pebbles and dirt. Up above, Barton reported into his radio. A door burst open to his right. Coulson’s face was blank, but seething. Steve met him half-way, skirting past the fleshy, mutated cows penned near Coulson’s house.

“Did you have fun on your little excursion?” he said, voice rimmed with ice.

“No, but I’m sure your Russian spy did,” Steve retorted.

Coulson stepped up close to Steve, looking up at him with fire in his eyes. “Fury sent her to keep an eye on you, Captain—mutated wildlife, radiation, nuclear waste, highwaymen.” Coulson’s shoulders went rigid and he jabbed a finger into Steve’s chest. “I did not spend three years of my life watching over you, just so you could get devoured by a pack of feral ghouls or God knows what!”

“For what, Coulson? Humor me. Tell me what your big plans are. Tell me why I’m such an important ‘investment.’”

Coulson crossed his arms, face becoming beet red. “Come off it, Captain. Had you stayed until morning like you promised, you would have been informed by now. Why on Earth would you risk the trip back to the laboratory?” Steve looked at his dirty boots. The smeared soot and grime totally obscured the once vibrant hues, and the stains would be impossible to fully remove. Steve looked to the sickly yellow sky, still mesmerized by the walls of circumstance that were slowly closing in.

“I was looking for someone,” Steve said quietly.

Coulson paused and hung his head in consideration, toe tapping into the dust and fell silent. His face recomposed itself and suddenly he stood at attention. Steve swung around and Fury’s toothy scowl greeted him with a puff of cigarette smoke.

“I hope you enjoyed your little field trip. With me. Now.” His long trench coat skirted along the ground. Steve kept pace with him up the hill. He looked back at Coulson, who called out to the blond man in the rafters. Fury led him up the hill. Eyes pierced into him from all sides, some of them not bothering to hide. A little girl clutched her mother’s hand, watching him ascend with wide eyes.

Their boots thudded against a hollow, hardwood floor. Large, cavernous holes in the façade were covered with sheet metal, which, along with the cracked windows, were the strongest sources of light. He threw a door open and waved Steve inside. Fury pointed to a foldout chair as he situated himself across polished, remarkably intact desk that shined under the lone light bulb. Three computer screens flickered in the darkness, each enquiring for a password. He leaned back in his chair, hands in a steeple on his chest.

"As I recall, we had a date,” Fury said, voice smooth.

“As I recall, I wasn’t a prisoner,” Steve shot back.

“You sure took off like one," Fury chuckled coolly. “Besides, if you think about it, we’re all prisoners here,” he said, nodding toward the window. He lit another cigarette after crushing the embers into a silver ashtray.

“When you look at this town, what do you see?” Fury asked. His eye stared him down, unblinking.

Steve was firm, but honest, so he straightened his back and lifted his chin. “I see remains the remains of civilization. Remnants scattered in a nightmarish wasteland,” he said with military candor. "The end."

Fury paused, carefully selecting his words. “You only see the mud, but not the people it’s smeared on. When I look at this town, I see people surviving by their own sweat and grit, in spite of this hell we’ve been anonymously condemned to.” Fury leaned forward in the light—no smile or knowing grin, but resolution and zeal. Tooth and nail struggles lurked in this man.

“Everything’s changed,” Steve said.

“Has it? Doesn’t sound so different from your time, Rogers. That is, if Phil Coulson’s books and newspapers have any truth to them.” Fury stood up and went over to the struggling fridge and pulled out a fresh Nuka-Cola. Steve eyed it, cautiously. “You see this soda-pop? When I was a kid, I saw a grown woman stab a teenager to death over one of these. You know why?” Steve looked ahead, imagining the blood. “She said that she believed that she’d never get another chance to taste one.” He popped the cap off and snatched from the air and pocketed it.

“Coulson is quite the historian. He told me all about your time: wealth disparities, the dwindling resources, the sick corruption under everyone’s nose and over everyone’s head. Doesn't sound like a utopia to me.”

Steve’s fist met the tabletop. “There was also cooperation, altruism, people coming together to try to defuse the nuclear arms race.” Steve cast his eyes down into his lap. “We were fighting for our survival. Don’t you dare accuse us of just sitting back and watching the world burn,” Steve said, hands balling into fists beneath the desk.

Fury retrieved two glasses and emptied the bottle into them. “There’s that fighting spirit. That’s what we’re doing right here, surviving. We may not be shipping supersoldiers overseas or building drones, but war, war never changes.”

Steve clenched his fists. “Is that what you want me to be? A weapon?”

“You were an investment, Natasha wasn’t lying about that. Having a near-bona fide superhero is just what we need to make the breakthrough of a lifetime.” He sat down again and savored his Nuka-Cola. “Sanctuary is a breath of civilization in this sea of chaos, but there are others out there. Five other towns in this corner of the state: Hillside, Interstate, Endsville, Langley and Drive-in. It’s an alliance of sorts. We rub each other’s back and watch each other’s ass.” A slick smile spread on Fury’s face. “For the sake of succinctness, we call it S.H.I.E.L.D. The name was Phil Coulson’s idea.”

He downed the Nuka-Cola. “And right now, all of our asses need watching. Something’s brewing.” He smashed another butt into the ashtray.

“How do you know that?”

The man stroked his chin and warily eyed him. “There are rumors and there are facts, which do you wanna hear first?”

“Facts.”

Without missing a beat, Fury started in. Two months back, the militia leader in Langley was found dead in his home. No signs of struggle, nothing stolen, everything intact save for the shattered glass near his study and the clean bullet hole in his temple. He was devoted to his work and everyone felt safer for it. His death swiftly dissolved the wall of security. The cracks were beginning to widen; the farmers wouldn't leave their homes for fear of exposure and every man, woman and child slept with one eye open.

Less than three days after that, his second in command disappeared. She had promptly ascended to his post, sending out militiamen to investigate the murder and bring the perpetrator to justice. Her attempts were quickly thwarted and her body was found similarly executed. 

“This wasn't any amateur. Too clean,” Fury said. He reached into his desk and pulled out a manila folder, thick with dusty letters. “All of these killings are the same. One shot, no messages or demand and nothing left at the scene except complete unease and confusion. All signs point to a trained assassin. If they're working alone, that is.”

Steve looked at the file; the documented killings ranged from wayward drunks to traders and doctors. The last one tore his heart in two. A seventy year-old soldier, a woman who had survived for the better part of a century in the wasteland put down ruthlessly and without a clear motive save for the spilling of blood.

“Now that I’ve piqued your interest,” Fury started, holding out a calloused hand. “What do you say, Captain? You can walk out of here or you can help bring some peace to a whole mess of people. Your choice.”

The dry wind whipped against the shutters. Steve breathed in deeply, trying to will this nightmare away, but the floorboards creaked under his feet and acrid odors of the barren earth burned his nostrils. His heart, still burdened by loss of unthinkable magnitude, was swayed by their plight. Bucky would have wanted him to. He had to.

Steve slipped his fingers out of his glove and grasped Fury's hand. “I will. I’ll help you, but just let me make myself crystal clear,” Steve stood up and leaned on the desk, planting his hands firmly and towering over Fury, “I’m not a gun you can just point and shoot—if I have a problem with your orders or your agenda, you’ll be the first one to know. I’m no bully.”

Fury broke out into a wide, toothy grin and laughed. Steve did not wilt. “I think you’ll find that things are a bit more complicated now. It’s not the United States versus the Russians and the Chinese. It’s us versus the wasteland—starvation, radiation and damnation. Throwing in some highly trained snipers just sweetens the deal, doesn’t it?” Fury stood up.

Steve took up his shield and secured it to his back. “Big things are in the works, Rogers. Big, big things. And speaking of…”

Natasha appeared behind Steve, not throwing him so much as a glance. She crossed over to Fury’s seat. She presented the hard drive and Fury tucked it away in his safe.

 

\+ + +

 

He asked the barkeep where Coulson lived. She wordlessly pointed to a small hut near the western corner of the compound. She looked as if she were about to say something, but she blushed and returned to her cleaning. Steve knocked lightly. Coulson opened the door and waved him in. The house was a stout thing. The ceiling hung low and the occasional stray wire brushed Steve’s head. He pressed a hand against a supporting column and, thankfully, it didn’t give.

“I see you’re admiring the architecture,” Coulson said, hands in his pockets. He followed Steve’s gaze and shoved a board away with his toe. “It’s not much, but we call it home.”

“’We?’”

“Barton and I. You might remember him, though I’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t a smooth introduction.” Coulson smiled fondly. “He helped me build it. He and I hauled scrap from miles around. Only the best.” The smile dissolved. “Clint wanted it solid, so I did my best to give that to him.” He clutched his left hand in his right.

Coulson gestured to an adjacent room and Steve followed, lowering his eyes. A round vinyl-top table and set of chairs furnished the dining room. Another rusty fridge rattled in the corner and Steve wondered what could have possibly needed refrigerating.

“I’m sorry if I came down on you too hard,” Coulson said. “I don’t blame you for having left like you did. For a moment I forgot how bewildering this all must be for you.”

“Yes…it is, but that doesn't make it right. Sneaking out like that was selfish. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

 “Well, being tranquilized and imprisoned tends to have that effect on people.” Steve smiled and Phil chuckled.

Coulson jerked his chair closer to the table. He had the air of a commanding officer, Steve thought, but he couldn’t fathom what, if any, outfits he could have lead. Any military forces here were informal, that much was certain. He imagined Coulson directing a ragtag bunch, soldiers in mismatching uniforms and rakish grins fending off waves of giant scorpions.

Coulson gave him a reprimanding glower. “That being said, it was reckless of you to run off. Romanov told me about that scorpion nest. You were lucky Fury sent her to back you up.”

“I apologize. I know you've invested a lot of time and energy watching over me,” Steve said. He furrowed his eyebrows and sank slowly onto a nearby stool, running his fingers through his hair.

Coulson uncrossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “That’s Fury’s word, not mine. You’re not an investment, you’re an asset. More importantly, you’re a hero.”

Coulson grabbed two bottles of filmy water and guzzled part of it down, offering Steve a cleaner batch. Steve choked down three sour gulps, rubbing his throat as he felt the water, particles and all, slide down his throat. Coulson pat him on the shoulder, telling him he would get used to it. Steve frowned as the acrid taste stained his taste buds.

“Fury sent me to speak with you," Steve said.

Coulson was beaming. “So you’re staying?”

“Innocent people are in danger,” Steve said. The water and something else sat like lead in his stomach. “I can't just walk away from that.”

 

\+ + +

 

The days dissolved into weeks. Soon Steve learned that the date never truly mattered in his day-to-day labors. He found himself ignoring his Pip Boy’s calendar as time went on. Eventually, he unhooked the latches on his wrist, and left the metallic device in his quarters. Occasionally, out of the corner of his eye, he would see vibrant red hair sneak out of view. He knew she was watching too, but Fury never mentioned her. She could stay a hostile dot on the horizon for all Steve cared.

Barton was told to teach him the ins and outs of the wasteland. At first he was distant and wary, but after he warmed up to Steve, he was quick to smile, blue eyes crinkling at the force of it. Fury sent them on multiple outings to reclaim supplies from clinics and abandoned bunkers. Steve was allowed to set the destination, having knowledge of some secret storage units hidden under the dry soil. Although nobody called Barton a guard, Steve knew he was also meant to keep him from running off again. His eyes were vigilant, always searching and cautious, despite the levity in his words.

Behind the scope of a rifle, Barton was cold and steely, always catching giant, slobbering beasts between the eyes, or blowing the carapaces of a radscorpions clean off, allowing Steve to land the killing blow. “You can get some caps for animal parts too,” Clint had said, wiping blood on his coat. Clint’s hands worked like a surgeon’s, showing Steve how to skin the beasts or remove their valuable glands.

Steve and he collected a good amount of bottle caps, too. Steve thought it bizarre that they used them as currency out in the wasteland, but, considering their rarity, he didn't think it any stranger than history's obsession with gold and silver.

It was during such messy lessons that Steve was thankful he entrusted his uniform to an unbelieving and speechless Phil Coulson. “It would just get ruined anyway," Steve said. "Besides, it makes me stick out like a sore thumb.” Phil clutched it to his chest, beaming. When a radscorpion’s poison gland erupted onto his tactical vest a couple days, he knew he had made the right call.

Each beast they fell was its own horror, parts familiar but warped beyond recognition. The dark eyes of the mutated bear were wild and wide, it’s teeth jutted out seemingly at will, forming a vicious maw. The wasteland natives called them Yao Guai, a Chinese word for tortured animals. Steve took to it the best he could, always facing each lesson with the stalwart face that Clint had seen in Phil’s comics. It was a grim tutelage, but one Steve could not avoid.  

Clint’s conversation by the fireside was jovial, though he never volunteered any details about his upbringing, the details that Steve desired most to know. He wondered how one grew up on the desolate landscape and if the children regarded their surroundings with pangs of betrayal or passive acceptance.

Steve eventually got an answer in fits and starts on longer expeditions. They would be camping out on the wasteland, either in an abandoned cave or hidden in a ruin when Clint would startle himself awake, hands scraping the sides of the tent or voice echoing in the damp ruins. He’d wipe the sweat from his brow and lay awake. Steve would remain silent and wait for the calm to wash over Clint as he gathered his bearings. Clint would sink back into his sleeping bag, slowly counting down from ten until sleep claimed him once more.

There was another side to it all, one Steve never expected. Much to his surprise, smiles could still be coaxed out of this bleak existence. When he and Clint would come back after each trek, the scrappy children would emerge from their houses, giggling and smiling in spite of their squalor, scraped knees and sooty faces. Steve would crouch down, gesturing big and wide, telling them about how a mutated bear or group of radscorpions bore ruthlessly upon them, slashing and roaring and how they fell the monster with a well placed arrow and a bash of his trusty shield. They watched him, eyes wide, some covering their gasping mouths, and all of their screams dissolving into cheers.

Clint smiled, adding gruesome details of his own, some too close to the truth and others wildly extravagant. Then he would procure a gruesome trophy. The kids would gasp in awe and amazement. Phil would approach Clint arms wide and Clint would enter them, neither of them minding the blood on Clint's fatigues. He would tell Phil about the new storage lockers or a small, neglected public library that he and Steve had discovered on their sojourns. And Phil would kiss his forehead, eyes full of thanks and praise. Seeing them kept Steve going.

Steve had even found a friend or two. As the guts and gore of mutated animals lost their shock value, so did the herd of brahmin kept near Sanctuary’s gate. Though, admittedly, he never truly got used to the smell, he found their beady black eyes comforting and kind. They were a pink, fleshy bunch, with no hair to speak of. Each brahmin stood about as tall as a normal cow, but with limbs of greater girth. Most shocking of all were the two heads that punctuated each individual. Steve could swear that each head had its own distinct personality.

Steve was gazing at the creatures when he met Sam Wilson, the head of Sanctuary’s trading caravan. He was quick on his feet and quick to smile, his teeth blinding white against his dark complexion. He kept his hair buzzed short and his goatee neat. "A point of pride," he said. Apart from his couriering and trading, he was their primary caretaker and he had names for each. “Bertha, Johnny, Dorothy, Shotgun,” he said, pointing to each. “Shotgun’s pregnant. She has a way to go yet, but the calf’s coming soon.” He had a way with animals, even managing to force a group of wild hounds off his trail.

Steve was posted on the gates that day. Sam was leaving for another venture to Drive-In when a pack of hounds were upon him. The brahmin lulled and cried out amidst the barking and snapping of jaws. Steve couldn’t get a clear shot amidst the scuffle of limbs and jaws. Steve heard a high piercing whistle and through the scope, he saw Sam take out a piece of jerky. Sure enough, the hounds were wagging their tails, eyes eager and mouths watering. And soon they were scrabbling among themselves as Sam calmed the beasts of burden. He even managed to pet a few of them before they trotted off. He waved to Steve, giving a thumbs-up.

Though Steve thought it silly, Sam and his brahmin herd made him think about Bucky. He and Bucky once stopped by a small antique shop deep in Brooklyn—a little more than a decade ago, if he went by his internal clock.

“It’s right in the back corner,” Bucky had said, grabbing him by the elbow. The curiosity shop wasn’t big, but the dim lighting and wall of mirrors made the place mysterious and inviting. Crystals and mysterious tomes glistened in the light. Bucky’s face lit up when he spotted the ornate glass case, his main quarry. He dragged Steve over and stepped up onto the stool, his nose inches away from the polished glass.

 “It has to be fake,” Steve had said to him. “There’s no way it was born like this.” 

Bucky punched his shoulder. “Stop being such a wet blanket.” Bucky tapped the glass and for a split second, Steve was afraid that the two-headed calf would start breathing. “Don’t listen to him, Earl. I know you’re legit,” Bucky said, making his eyes comically wide and sad and tapping the glass. If he could go back, Steve would have treated the two-headed calf with more respect.

Whenever his thoughts lingered on Bucky’s face, the nights that followed were difficult to bear. Steve's cot would creak beneath his weight as he recalled Bucky’s touch and the scrape of his stubble at the base of his neck. His room was empty and quiet without Bucky, replaced only by the desperate slide of Steve's hand on his cock and raggedly drawn breaths. Steve would gasp and then his small high would fade, the desolate quiet closing in. Steve would sigh softly into the pillow, imagining Bucky’s arms around his waist and his mouth whispering wonderful nonsense into his right ear late into the night.

 

\+ + +

 

Nick Fury was reclusive, presumably choosing to stay in his secure home up on the ridge. Steve rarely saw him wandering around Sanctuary. On occasion, Fury would ask Phil to fetch him. His questions were to-the-point, usually about his performance and about the haul of supplies they had recovered from the wasteland. He rarely asked after Steve’s service history. Steve assumed that Coulson had told him all about it. Steve wanted to offer him some background as a show of trust, but Fury had waved away all attempts. “All I need is scrap and medicine,” Fury had plainly stated. “Save the war stories for Coulson.”

Bucky would have called him cowardly for not traversing the wastes himself, but Steve knew better. From the eye patch to the rough ridge of his nose to the thick, worn fingers, he could say with certainty that Fury has done his time on the battlefield. After a while, Steve found himself thankful for the loose chain of command, even if the directives were vague at best.

But as far as the “Big Things” were concerned, Fury had kept mum, until one dying afternoon, when Sam, fresh from a trading route, left the brahmin in their stables and marched directly to his door. He knocked a distinct pattern, two groups of three quick taps. Fury opened the door and Sam held a sealed envelope out to him. Steve looked to Clint, his jaw was firmly set and his eyes were clear, as if he were eyeing a target through his scope. “I’ll be damned, he finally found ‘em,” Clint said.

Fury opened his door wide and, with two gloved fingers, beckoned the two over.

 

\+ + +

 

Sam Wilson pointed to a small speck on the horizon. “See that? Interstate is right over that hill. It's tucked right beneath the overpass.” He smiled wide and tugged on the brahmin’s reins.

“We’re really getting there in record time,” Sam said over the metallic jingling of his caravan’s load. “Something about you makes the Bertha want to catch up.”

“Must be fans of my comics and serials,” Steve joked.

Sam rubbed his lead brahmin beneath her chin. “Nah. You’re just an inspiring force of nature. ‘Captain America, Defender of Truth and Justice!’ Besides, you’re not mean to them like Maria is.”

Maria tipped her cap up to glare at Sam. “Don’t go bringing me into this. As long as they get there and back alive, I’ve done my job,” Maria said over her shoulder. Her eyes almost never left the road. She held her rifle in both hands, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

She was soft-spoken, but curt, having barely said a word to Steve as they loaded up the brahmin early that morning. She addressed Steve warily, but with respect. He pretended not to have seen the rolled up comic in her attaché case. She was an expert marksman as well, catching a fire ant between the eyes from hundreds of yards away. Good thing too, since they tended to breathe fire.

After another few hours of back and forth, the group reached Interstate whole and healthy. Fury met them at the chain-link fence, with Clint in tow. Another man with sandy hair stood near them. He wore a clean but tattered suit in gray. The smoothness of his gait spoke of self-assuredness and refinement, qualities that Steve had thought died out with the roses. Standing beside him was a woman decked out in leather armor, her dark hair cropped short.

A crowd of traders and mercenaries buzzed about the rows of stands, inspecting guns and ammo, exotic foods and scavenged supplies, their faces smeared with soot and travel, voices cajoling and loud. The hard pavement was welcome beneath Steve’s soles. A large neon sign flickered on the overpass, welcoming all to Interstate, Trading Bastion of the Wasteland. The road stretched out beyond the chain link fencing, out to the edge of the sky. Smoke from a nearby food cart choked the sky and Steve averted his eyes as the vendor held up a gigantic, squirming radroach by its antennae. It's legs danced and squirmed even as it went into the fire.

“You’re early,” Fury shouted from across the market.

The man walked up and held out a hand. “You must be the hero I’ve heard so much about. My name is Alexander Pierce, pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Barton tells me you're a quick study.”

Clint gripped Steve by the shoulder and gave him a shake. “He’s really been kicking ass out there.”

Dropping into habit, Steve saluted Pierce. “Just trying to do my part.”

Flicking his hand, Pierce chuckled and said, “Such decorum won’t be needed around me, Captain. You can relax.”

“Pierce is my second in command when it comes to the S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security. He and I occupy seats on its security council. I trust him with my life,” Fury stated, sensing the caution in Steve’s gesture. After resting, Steve removed his sodden glove and shook Pierce’s hand. He seemed a tad smarmy, but Fury seemed at ease around him, so he was moderately assuaged.

The woman gave him a thorough once over. “I am Yvonne, Interstate's mayor.” Steve offered his hand to her as well. “I hope you’re ready for the coming days, Rogers. Big, big things in the works.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Sam reached into his pocket and retrieved a small metallic case. He placed it in Fury’s palm. “Here’s your package. Safe and sound.” Eyeing the device, Steve doused his burning urge to speculate as to its function and content.

“Thank you, Wilson,” Fury said. “And thank you Hill and Rogers, for its safe passage.”

Sam nodded, the excitable grin suddenly fading away. "It's what I do.”

“I trust that’s not the only thing you ferried here, Wilson,” Pierce said. “We have our caravan in from Hillside as well. Found an old military bunker the other day, so they’re sure to have something to entice you.”

“I’ll have to drop by your stands, then.” Sam tipped his hat and returned to Maria and the caravan across the asphalt.

Yvonne turned to Fury. “Brief Rogers and Barton on Project Insight. We will meet again afterwards for your tour,” she said in a series of crisp syllables. 

Steve and Clint followed Pierce and Fury to a heavy, steel structure cradled beneath the overpass. Emblazoned on the door was “Vault 37” in yellow lettering. When Fury approached the door, a small console switched on.

“Ah, we have been inspecting you,” a tinny voice said through the microphone. His voice was professionally polite and tinged with a familiar accent. Steve wondered how such a vocal quirk could survive through two hundred years of isolation until the door hissed open and a Mister Handy floated across the foyer, sparks flying from its soldering iron as it repaired a laser pistol. In its other tendrils, it polished a beer mug commemorating events long forgotten. “Good afternoon, JARVIS. How are you this afternoon?” Fury said.

“My processors are functioning at acceptable levels. I could use some touch-ups on my posterior hull but—“

“I know, JARVIS, I know. I told you, I'm still busy with Fury's little project.” A man in an oil-stained tanktop emerged, preceded by an eerie blue glow emanating from the center of his chest. He whipped his hand about, loosening a thick rubber glove. He grabbed Fury’s hand and gave it a shake. “How’s the ol’ war hound doing?”

“I’d be better if we didn’t dawdle, Stark.”

The brunet’s eyes met Steve’s and gave him a vigorous once over. “Now, now, just wait a minute.” He licked his lips. “I recognize _you._ Pretty rude to go without formal introductions.” He walked over to Steve, eyes abuzz with appraisal. “I’m Tony Stark. The wasteland’s richest, handsomest and, if I say so myself, most gifted engineer. And you’re Steve Rogers a.k.a. Captain America. My god. Coulson actually pulled it off. Damn.” Clint crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

Steve cautiously took his hand and cracked a wry smile. “I take it you’re a fan, too?”

Tony placed his hands on his hips, eyes still gliding up and down his frame. “I don’t really have the time for comics nowadays. But,” Tony’s eyes darted to Fury, “I have spent some time with you, yes.”

The obnoxious engineer. “You were there with Coulson. You helped him get into the cryo labs.” Steve stepped forward.

“Cut the small talk. We have business to conduct, Rogers,” Fury deplored.

“It would be prudent to get this meeting started as soon as possible, Tony,” Pierce commented, looking at a brightly polished watch.

Tony put his hands up in play defense. “All right, all right. The blond bombshell and I can chat later.” Steve swallowed, his jaw going rigid. Bucky would have punched Stark in the jaw.

Stark strolled over to the wall and hit a switch. Another hatch slid open and Tony waved them all in. A silent pall fell over them as they followed Tony through the winding tunnels, some planned, others improvised.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Tony said. “I have most of the wiring up to code, just none of the original flashing lights and colors. Don’t worry, I’m not always this messy.” He elbowed Steve in the ribs.

“Oh my god, keep it in your pants,” Barton called from behind them. Tony flicked his hand at him and continued on.

They crossed the last threshold and suddenly they were bathed in the cool glow of computers. The monitors’ curves were slick and clean, like nothing Steve has ever laid eyes on. Fury stood, face steely and nearing impatience. Tony stepped out in front of them.

“You should all consider yourselves to be very lucky, gentlemen. You have front row seats to SHIELD’s ‘Wasteland of the Future,’ a Tony Stark production.”

Pierce scratched his nose. “Actually, Rogers, the title we decided on is ‘Project Insight.’”

“Ok, yeah, whatever,” Tony drawled.

A screen seemed to float in mid-air. A schematic flashed up on the screen. The blueprints depicted an advanced, military grade aircraft from the side and a bird’s eye view. The thing was massive, far larger than any conventional helicopter he has ever laid eyes on. Steve’s eyes ran over the weapons package. It was capable of wiping out entire towns with that kind of firepower—rockets, miniguns, grenades, even a system for deterring anti-aircraft missiles. Big, big things indeed.

“Now, the engine, thanks to the efforts of yours truly, is functioning at an astonishing forty-six percent capacity.” He tapped the console and the engine took up the whole screen, parts highlighted in blue and others in orange, the latter lights throbbing dully.

Marching up to Stark, Steve asked pointedly, “What exactly is all this for?”

Stark stepped away, referencing a schematic on a nearby bench. “My personal scouts have, at last, scoped out three Vertibird remains, which may house the necessary components to bring this baby up to eighty percent, enough for the rickety ol’ fossil to take off with only a minor chance of horrific immolation.”

Fury waved his hand brought up a map. “What are we looking at?”

“Two downed aircrafts were located roughly seven klicks north of Langley and a third lies four klicks west of Drive-In, still buried in some flooded ruins. Two scouts are guarding the Langley site, pending inspection from the Good Captain and Mr. Barton.”

“We’ll have them sent down to investigate,” Pierce said.

"How were the crafts discovered?” Steve asked. “Barton and I were running pest-control while Stark was tampering with delicate with military equipment?”

“Now, now, Rogers; some of these expeditions lasted weeks,” Tony said, cocking an eyebrow. “In between taking care of the A.I. at Interstate and my private ventures, I repair the scouts and send them out on their way. Anything can happen to a poor little robot out on the wasteland, Cap: raiders, prospectors, even the occasional deathclaw.” He smiled, mischief dancing on his lips. He cast an eye to Steve’s corner. “And the robobrains can perish from simple loneliness. The human brains that act as their servers are no strangers to loss. The vast majority of them date back to the pre-war era. Sorta sad, really.”

Steve remembered seeing their husks out on the road. Sam had tinkered with the remains as Maria kept watch through her diligent scope. The pink brain almost seemed to glare at him through the glass and he swore he saw its multi-jointed limbs twitch.

“You better watch what you say, Stark," Barton chortled. Steve brushed it off, but he couldn’t avoid Tony’s wandering eye.

Pierce straightened his tie. “Things like travel and investigation are no trivial matters any longer, Captain, you know that.” Pierce clutched his hands behind his back. “We cannot spare the soldiers and supplies to probe every dusty ruin that dots the wasteland. Not every bastion has been blessed with the presence of a veritable legend like yourself.”

“What happens once this fighter-craft gets completed?” Steve asked, voice firm and commanding. “Why now? Why weren’t these sites discovered earlier? They’ve been around for two centuries.”

“We haven’t had a need for them until now,” Pierce answered calmly. “Surely Fury has informed you of our most recent duress.”

Steve looked to Fury. “Langley’s mayor is the latest to be added to the file, Rogers.”

  At the mere mention, Barton averted his eyes and Tony coughed into his hand.  Silence fell like bricks over them.

“This is the future of humanity, Rogers,” Fury stated. “With this aircraft, we can accomplish things that our current forces could only dream of. We’ll be able to undertake succinct, effective routing of raiders, slavers and unfriendly wasteland wildlife. No more casualties on our end.”

Steve was in his face in an instant, seething. “And then what? Do you think this alliance can handle the responsibility of such firepower?” Steve grabbed a paper schematic and held it to Fury’s face. “Will S.H.I.E.L.D. be content adjudicating this part of the wasteland, holding a gun to everyone’s head? Or will it want more?”

Pierce stepped between Nick and Steve, coolly considering both of their rising tempers. “I don’t think you’re in any position to argue, Rogers. Your leaders are the ones that fired the nuclear warheads, not ours. Your time's errors are not without their lessons.”

Fury cleared his throat. “You are well aware of the current security risk posed to our people, Rogers. We need security. They need to feel safe at night. I’m sure Barton wouldn’t object to a bit more quality time at home.” Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Clint dissolve into the shadows, chewing his thumbnail and avoiding their eyes.

Pierce touched Steve's shoulder and led him over to an adjacent map. “All of these towns would be safe. Once word spread, no one would dare try opposing one of our settlements.” His eyes hardened. "And you could be part of that."

The room fell quiet. He imagined raiders cowering in the dust as the aircraft wiped them off the map, along with all their violence and mindless rage and the group of snipers that had taken out Langley’s guardian, the father of two and the peace of mind of the whole. He knew there was no negotiating with wanderers in the wastes, for he had tried numerous times before, when Clint and he were camped out in the desert. The raiders and rapists and slaughterers could finally be gone. Steve was at an impasse.

He looked to Pierce, whose face was soft and contemplative. He knew pain and so did Clint and Fury. Even Tony Stark’s face faded into a pensive grimace. Steve ran a hand over his sweaty face and clenched into a fist at his side. Steve met Clint’s eye and backed down.

“What would I have to do?” Steve asked.

“Run reconnaissance with Barton and Romanov. Make sure the cargo reaches Stark in one piece,” Fury said. "Nothing you haven't handled ably before."

Pierce was suddenly next to him, sweeping grandly to the holograms. “I understand your concerns, Captain, but we are growing more and more defenseless with each coming week. The law of the wasteland is violence, Rogers and S.H.I.E.L.D. needs an advocate. Can we rely on you to bring this project to fruition?”

Steve turned to waiting, expectant faces. “I need to sleep on it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really pleased I managed to sneak in Ron Perlman's famous line from the Fallout series. I couldn't resist including, "But war, war never changes."
> 
> The next chapter will have some sensitive material in it, so be mindful of the changes in the tags.


	5. What We Bear

           

The orange moon was huge in the sky as it slowly dipped toward the rocky horizon. The sound of the wind rushed through the chain link fences, punctuated by the sparse crackle of gunfire in the distance. One by one, the strings of lights blinked out, setting the stage for clandestine deals and weary cruising. Merchants stored their wares in safes and tallied their hauls. Some held small canisters to their mouths and inhaled deeply, letting the harsh vapors of Jet invade their synapses and dulled their minds with forget. Guards in power-armor polished to a mirror-like sheen, began their patrols, hearts secretly racing, waiting for the first bullets of the night to ignite.

Pierce and Fury had long since taken leave to discuss the new itinerary for the vertibird prototype's completion and to tour the site intended for its storage and construction. Neither mentioned the location of the warehouse, only that Yvonne would be leading the way. On the other side of town, away from the empty stands and the full taverns, Sam and Maria visited with a local gunsmith about some custom wares.

Steve had decided to join Clint at the tavern. As they found their seats, a quiet tremor of excitement shuddered in their wake. Though weeks of travel and labor dulled its shine, the star on his shield remained vibrant and unmistakable. 

“Is that really him?” 

“I know I’ve seen that shield somewhere before. Pass that magazine!” 

“I’ll be damned, it’s Captain-Fucking-America.”

Steve could only smile and nod at the commenters as he and Clint found a secluded corner. Clint was talkative, taking up the slack when Steve grew quiet. Steve wished he were better company, but, letting the beer’s chill run over his fingers, his mind kept returning to the prototype, how its shadow would darken the wasteland, the buffeting blasts of its propellers a grim harbinger of blood and bullets. Clint looked at him with careful eyes.

“Stark’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Clint said with a friendly, but forced chuckle.

“I’ve met people like him before. Every project has an ego involved.” Even so, Steve couldn't bring himself to write him off entirely. The pugnacious curve of Tony’s smile made Steve's nerves warm with nostalgia. Bucky always had a way of skewing the room towards him. He and Tony shared the same charismatic lilt. Steve bit his cheek. Even when there were more pressing matters, his mind always returned to Bucky, as if it were chemically entangled with his presence—the uniform in their closet, his dirty dishes in the sink, his throaty baritone in the shower.

“Phil always said he was a handful.” Clint moved to raise his hand. “Do you want another beer? Looks like you could use one.” Steve stilled him with a wave. The throngs of traders had long since filtered into the bars, those who didn’t huddled around their campfires. Over the crowd Steve could hear the faint twang of their guitars.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind paying,” Clint said, jingling a handful of bottle caps.

“No thanks. I can’t get drunk anyway. Side effect of the serum.” Steve felt eyes sneaking glances, but couldn’t sense their intent, and hoped no one wanted to test his mythic mettle. “Let the barkeep save it for someone who needs it.” He clasped his hands on the countertop.

“Oh yeah. I think I remember Phil telling me about that,” Clint chuckled. “Sorry, man. That sucks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve smiled softly and cracked his neck. His mind drifted to the Nick Fury’s dossier of killings. “You were awfully quiet in there, Barton. What's your take on Project Insight?”

Barton looked up at the iron-wrought moon hanging on the wall, as if he were trying to divine the proper answer. “Phil supports it, even if he is a bit wary of the whole thing. I guess I am too. If he were there, he prolly would’ve had your back.” He considered the whiskey in his coffee mug. “But Phil trusts Fury, and that’s good enough for me.”

“But do they trust Pierce enough to handle it responsibly?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve definitely given it some thought, but,” Clint’s mouth puckered, like he just bit into something sour, “I know that I would’ve liked to have something like that around when I was a kid…I would’ve loved to just look up at the sky and see a real-live vertibird blow all the slavers and bad guys to bits.”

Steve’s breathing stopped. His hands were fists. “Slavers?”

Clint took a deep breath through his nose and took a deep swig of his whiskey. “Yeah. I never really told you about it before." He scratched the back of his head. "I guess my upbringing has me thinking more charitably about the death-copter.

“You see…my parents sold me off to slavers when I was barely a teenager.” He placed the mug on the counter and turned toward Steve. “They told me I was joining the circus, if you can believe that. As far as I was concerned, even if the people weren’t from the circus, I’d be better off with them instead of with my goddamn parents.”

He sighed and leaned forward, as if a heavy load were just dumped on his shoulders. “They weren’t any circus but…I learned a few tricks there, alright. God.” He downed his mug of whiskey and jerked his head, as if to dislodge a memory.

Steve’s nostrils flared with anger. “Why? Why would your parents do such a thing?”

“They never paid any attention to me or my brother, just sat around all day huffing jet. Sometimes they forgot our names. They probably suffocated the part of their brains where we were.” Clint scoffed but his eyes were dewy and red.

“They came to collect us at night, when my parents were passed out. I screamed and screamed, but they didn’t wake up. I can’t help but wonder if they were awake or not. Guess I’ll never know.” Steve tensed up, making sure his body didn’t rub up against Clint’s trembling sides. Suddenly the light cast deep shadows across his face. Clint scratched his neck.

"Barney, my brother, struggled the hardest...shot him for that." 

"I'm sorry, Clint." It was all Steve could manage. It made sense now, the relish in Clint’s eyes when he’d pick off raiders in the distance and his determined grit. “How did you escape? How did you survive?”

His hand loosened and went up to wipe his eyes. “Phil. It was a long time ago. He was a merc back then—a really good one. He saw a group of us being transported to another slaver camp, caps had just changed hands, and they were deliverin’. He convinced them that he wanted to make a deal and that he had enough money to top the previous bid. They didn’t want to piss off the people who just bought me, but Phil convinced them to meet up and cut a deal when he showed them he meant business. Never saw that much money before.

“Phil sent them the coordinates to an abandoned warehouse. When they got there, he didn’t waste any time. No words, no questions, just guns blazing. None of his shots missed—didn’t hear any ricocheting bullets. I was locked up in the next room. I heard the whole thing. My heart nearly burst from my goddamn chest. I thought that I was gonna be next. This guy could have been pumped up full of Psycho--that stuff's even worse than Jet.” Clint clutched the empty mug. “I must have been around twenty then. It’s all kinda fuzzy. Maybe that’s for the better.

“The one thing I remember clearly is when he released me. As soon as the chains were off, Phil asked me if I was tired. And he held out his hand to me. Must have passed out right after, 'cause next thing I knew, I woke up in some old diner and Phil was making coffee. Been with him ever since.” He finished his whiskey, lips soft and fond when Phil’s name crossed their border.

“My god.” Steve’s palms were in his eyes, wiping slowly. Hell on Earth, in spite of the few pockets of hope, he had to remind himself that this was Hell on Earth. He inhaled deeply and recomposed himself. The crowd went on with their carousing and bawdy chatter, ignoring Clint’s grizzly tale. They must have heard the same old story hundreds of times before—even enslavement was routine to them. Heinous. Bucky said he didn’t have hope for humanity and Steve had to force himself from bleakly agreeing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You had nothing to do with it. Hell, I guess that’s why I don’t mind the project all that much. Blowing all those guys away sounds pretty good to me.” Clint sat up and stretched. “Sorry if I brought down the mood at all.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Clint.” Steve sat up straight. “I’m glad that you trusted me enough to tell me. It must be a hard story to recount.”

Clint smiled a small, closed smile and grabbed Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks, Steve.” Clint shoved away from the bar, stretching with a grunt. “I gotta get to bed. We have a lot on our plate tomorrow,” he leaned over the counter and called to the kitchen, “Unlike tonight!” he added. 

A hoarse voice answered back with a chortle. “Fuck you, Barton!” 

“I know you got a lot on your mind, Rogers, but whatever you decide about the project…just know I won’t blame you either way.” Steve smiled, his chin falling to his chest.

As Clint left his stool, the bartender approached Steve's table and slid a sealed bottle of beer over to him. It was cool and pristine, as if it, too, were frozen and preserved for centuries. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order this.”

“It’s from the gentleman in the corner,” the bartender said, rolling her eyes. Steve scanned the bar and laid eyes on an eerie blue glow and immediately regretted his curiosity.

Tony feigned surprise and looked over both shoulders, as if he could not believe that Captain America was gazing at him and him alone. He grinned and shrugged and stood up from his table. He sauntered over, giving a flirty nod to each man and woman who paid him any mind along the way.

Tony sat on the stool and tried to swivel on it and nearly tumbled off. Steve couldn’t contain a snicker as Tony regained his composure. As soon as one hundred percent of Tony’s attention was back on him, Steve put up his guard. “Okay, okay, what do you want, Stark?”

"Oh relax. This isn’t business.” He grabbed the cool bottle in front of Steve and popped the cap off. “Just pleasure.”

Steve took a drink and it was like stepping back in time. “Thanks, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear your buddy’s story. It’s a damn shame what he went through.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed and shook his head. “If you even think about using his suffering for your paltry conquests, you’ll regret it.”

Tony’s eyes went wide and he held up his hand in apology. “I’m being serious, Steve. It’s terrible what that guy had to go through.” Steve couldn’t get a clear read on Stark. He appeared genuinely sympathetic, but Steve got the impression that he’d been around the block one too many times. Nonetheless, he relented.

“Yes. It was. He’s a remarkable man.”

“He is.” A man in the corner cursed and kicked the jukebox and suddenly it roared to life with a song unbecoming to the graveness on Tony’s face.

He ran a hand through his brown hair, a smile returning. “I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot earlier. Whenever words fail me, I revert to aggressive flirting.” He held out his hand, which was now free from oil and grease. “How about we start over? My name is Tony Stark.”

“I’m Steve Rogers.” He took another swig of the beer and he hated how much he liked it, but it had more to do with his current company. It turned out Tony was easy to talk to, once he dropped his guard. Tony delivered his anecdotes with the intangible air of Old World cool. Steve supposed that if his own legacy could survive the end of the civilization, then other records must have followed him across the veil: movies, television programs, the odd guide on picking up women and trashy ten-cent novels. Imitation notwithstanding, his charm had swayed Steve over the hour or two they spent there. Tony was like a star on the silver screen and, judging from his technological prowess, Steve decided that his ego was at least partially earned. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Steve’s mind yielded to his current quandary.

“So you’ve been working with Fury and Pierce all this time? You’ve seen the vertibird up close. You know what it’s capable of. What do you think about their plan?”

Tony ordered another beer, one rebottled in a centuries-old container from a no doubt rare brewery. The server didn't ask for caps up front and Steve suspected Tony had a long-running tab. Tony shrugged, frowning in introspection. “It’s not the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”

“You don’t think anything could go wrong?” Steve turned in his stool.

“Of course things can still go wrong. Everything can go wrong if Fate wakes up on the wrong side of the bed," Tony chuckled. "The Great War happened, didn't it?"

“That’s not what I meant. There’s something about Pierce that rubs me the wrong way.”

Tony cocked an eyebrow. “Does anyone rub you the _right_ way, Rogers?” Steve gave him a chastising glare, as if a trooper in his charge spoke out of line. “But I do agree, Pierce is a slick cat. I’m not a cat person.”

“Then why help them?”

“For what it’s worth, the world could do with fewer ne’er-do-wells. Just like Barton said.” He extended his arms and cracked his knuckle.

“I understand that, but is this really the solution, holding SHIELD’s citizens hostage? There's a thin line between security and facism.”

Tony guffawed. “I’m sorry, but don’t you come from a time when every damn government in the world was hoarding weapons of mass destruction for the sake of ‘safety?’ Didn’t you have any qualms about that?”

“That’s exactly my point, Stark. I’ve seen how militarization affects people. Children hide under desks and beds during a thunderstorm, grown men cowered from every crop-duster and weather balloon. Every day the radio spat out how many lives Russia could take with a single nuclear device and how the body corrodes from exposure to radiation.” Steve’s hands were clutched in front of his mouth and his angry stare was miles away. “These wasteland settlers already enough on their minds—just getting a drink of water is a hardship.”

Tony was silent for a moment. Steve took another drink and found the beer was getting flat.

“Sometimes,” Tony started, “you have to get your hands dirty to survive. I mean look at Coulson. He’s a good man, but merciless if you’re the one in his crosshairs. Hell, there’s probably no one in this bar who hasn’t at least shot at someone.”

“Is that how you got that?” Steve said, nodding toward the blue glow in Tony’s sternum. "When you were getting your hands dirty?"

Tony sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Out with it.”

Tony popped open another bottle. “Back when I led a more blithe existence, I worked with this weapons cartel. They dealt in energy weapons for the most part. Plasma pistols, laser rifles, you name it. I was their head of development and business was booming.

"One day, when I realized that I had enough caps to retire comfortably, I told them I wanted out. And Big Lucy, their leader, did not take to that too kindly. Suddenly, all the shiny barrels I had spent so much time calibrating were turned on me. Killed a hefty handful of them before I holed up in a cave near to the compound. I was trapped, but the cave was easily defended. I was hopeful that I’d win out on the war of contrition and they’d give up. Then I heard the rattle of a grenade near my feet.”

"How did you survive that?”

Tony chortled bitterly. “Ironically, it was Big Lucy who saved my life. When I woke up after the blast, I was strapped to this table with a car battery strapped to my chest. They said that the electric charge was keeping the shrapnel from going to my heart. And they were right.” Tony puffed out his chest and crammed his jaw to his collarbone, making several chins. “’You stawp verking and ve pull ze plug,' Lucy said."

Steve’s eyes went to his chest.

“I made them more weapons and they gave me their leftovers. Oh, and they kept the battery charged. But I was smarter than they were.” He tapped his head with the bottle’s spout and he edged nearer to Steve. “I made this arc reactor in secret.” He took Steve’s hand and held it to his chest and Steve felt it hum beneath his fingertips. Then he tossed Steve's hand away. “And then, from the various sundry scrap they thoughtlessly tossed my way, I modified the Mr. Handy robot they let me work with. You met him—JARVIS. We gunned our way out of there, bolts of plasma frying off faces, fiery blasts booming left and right, JARVIS making the corniest jokes of all time. It was bloody, no doubt, but damn did it feel good to see Big Lucy go down.”

Tony’s face softened again. “Once free, I still had the caps to buy out the remains of the vault at Interstate—not quite as intact as the vault at Hillside, but I was willing to take what I could get.” Steve could smell the oil on Tony’s skin and the alcohol on his breath and the musky undercurrents of his sweat. No one had looked at him like that in centuries, like he was a anything more than an antique symbol. His eyes were dark and intruding and Steve couldn’t break his gaze.

“The point is, everyone has to attend to some grim business to get to the pleasurable parts of life. You can’t keep your fingers clean if your hand is dealt from a deck of bloodstained cards. That, my friend, is the way of the world, then and now.”

“You don’t see the pattern? You were making weapons for people you couldn’t trust and you’re doing the same now.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“How can you justify it then?”

Tony looked up at the ceiling, swaying slightly in his seat. Steve wondered how he appeared when at work in his lab, when the vault doors closed off from him every wandering, skeptical eye. He must have looked like he did now, pensive, tense, mind at struggle with the mechanics of morality rather than the study of ohms and circuits.

“I know I’ve contributed a lot of suffering to the wasteland—Stark's plasma rifles are really good at killing—but I think I’ve brought some peace of mind. I mean, look at all these drunks,” he cast an arm in a wide arc at the crowd. “If I hadn’t supplied the militia here with the power armor and the rifles, these people would be quiet as a tomb. Or in one.”

Looking him square in the face, Steve recognized Bucky’s simmering resolve, one that he followed through thick and thin. If he squinted, he could have seen Bucky. His heart raced. Tony’s hand made its way up Steve’s thigh and, by god, he let it linger there, warming him through the worn fabric.

“And maybe, just maybe if the vertibird could put people’s minds at ease and let the Bartons of the world get a little relief, then I could be proud of myself.”

His face was “You armed Interstate’s militia? All on your own?”

“Like I said, I made a lot of money working with Big Lucy. Besides, I like a man who can handle himself,” Stark said, stroking his goatee with his free hand.

"So Coulson told you some stories about me, huh?” Steve asked, smile flitting across his face.

“On and on and on. But you know what? I believe every word of it. You’ve got a reputation as one of the hardest working men in history. You’ve been getting your hands dirty your whole life. Aren’t you ready for the pleasure part of the deal?” He reached over and finished Steve’s beer.

Steve blushed, not believing the disloyalty surging in his groin. Technically speaking, hundreds of years had passed since anyone touched him like that, but only a few months in his mind. Still he couldn’t bring himself to retreat from Tony’s touch. Soon, he was following Tony out of the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought spotted Natasha tucked in the shadows, sipping a beer, judging, but then, as soon as they spilled out into the night, she was miles from his mind. He let his arm hook with Tony’s, even as he battled to push down the surging guilt in his gut.

Vault 35 swung open and Tony said, “After you.”

They made it to the Vault Overseer's vast bedroom. Tony looked up at him with a heady gaze as he inched closer to Steve and in a flash had him pinned to the wall with his searching lips. Steve’s eyes squinted shut abashedly, but he couldn’t stop the lazy undulation of his tongue. Tony was a consummate kisser, his tongue rolling over Steve’s. He pretended it was Bucky searching his mouth, Bucky settling in between his thighs, Bucky whispering soft encouragement in his ear.

His hands went to Tony’s hips. Steve was hard as a rock and he felt every sway of Tony’s hips through his fatigues. If he kept his eyes shut, he told himself, he could live through the lie.

Slowly, Tony removed himself from Steve’s limbs and guided him to the rickety mattress. Steve lowered himself onto the bed, watching as Tony slipped off his shirt, revealing the glowing reactor on his chest. Steve couldn’t look away, and reached out, fingertips grazing Tony’s defined chest and stomach, letting them settle in the sparse hair on his chest. Tony smirked at his prize.

He was on top of Steve, moaning into his mouth as he unbuttoned his shirt. Soon he was running his hands and lips over Steve’s sweaty chest. Steve breathed hard through his nose, his mind returning to Bucky in their vacuous Fort Roxbury apartment, in their crammed apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky’s lips right before Steve slept for two hundred years. He hadn't thought of the name Roxbury in a long time, but his mind was sliding elsewhere.

Tony had the fly of Steve's fatigues undone, his nose rooting through Steve’s pubic hair and tongue teasing the base of his cock. “You like that?” he asked.

Steve looked at him through his lashes and he thought he heard the cracking of fireworks in the distance. He watched the candlelight drift over the muscles in Tony’s shoulders and pool in the dimple of his chin.

“Forgive me,” Steve gasped.

 

\+ + +

 

Tony lay snoring beside him, sweat glistening in the low lamplight. His satisfied grin had not yet left his lips. Steve was on the side of the bed, listening to the grinding snores behind him. He still felt the soft tingle at the base of his spine, one inspired by Tony’s fingers, which had expertly brought him to climax. It was either really late or really early.

Tony had been amazingly attentive and quiet. Steve wiped his eyes.

He stood up and pulled on his pants. The creak of the mattress woke Tony and the blue glow stared at him accusingly. “Leaving so soon?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Steve murmured, facing away from him.

Tony stretched and groaned. “Don’t worry about it. I should get cracking anyway. Lots to organize.” Steve had nearly slipped through the door when Tony grabbed him at the elbow. “Hey, buddy. Did I do something wrong? I kinda feel like the bad guy here.”

Steve gently slipped from his grasp. “No, nothing like that. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah. You still have to give Pierce an answer, don’t you?” Tony rubbed the back of his neck. He huffed and yawned. “At least let me walk you out. Even _I_ take a few wrong turns here every now and then.”

Steve nodded. Tony slipped on a jumpsuit and zipped it to the waist, leaving the top half tied around his waist. He waved and Steve followed him through the winding corridors and miles and miles of cords and tubes, the soft hum of tech radiating through him.

He stopped at the door. “I guess it’s ‘good night,’ Rogers. For what it’s worth, I had fun.”

“I did too,” Steve said, eyebrows knit at his infidelity. Steve crossed his arms, his eyes darting to the morning sky.

The hatch hissed open and the blue skeins of morning had started their ascent. A few Interstate dwellers made their way frantically to the town center.

“Looks like something has the rabble up in arms,” Tony said. “Someone probably just tipped over a brahmin again.” Tony yawned.

In the distance a woman with a bullhorn summoned the townsfolk, “Emergency: Class A, Emergency: Class A. All merchants and citizens of Interstate are to report to Market Square immediately.”

“Sheesh. Haven’t had a Class A in awhile.”

“Something’s wrong,” Steve said. He pulled on his jackets and checked the laces in his boots, forcing his guilt into the back of his mind. “I’m going to go see what it is.”

Tony pinched Steve’s hip again. “Alright soldier.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I’ll be safer in my hidey-hole. Besides, I have a little project I need to finish for Fury.”

Steve remembered the hard-drive. “And Steve, you think long and hard about ‘Project Insight.’ Okay?”

Steve nodded and shoved off, ready to be away from Tony’s temptation at last. The air was cool and dry, but the murmuring and mumbling of the crowd began to inflate into tumult. Through the throng of dusty residents, Clint pushed his way though to Steve.

“Where the hell have you been? You never came back to camp last night!”

“Clint! What's going on?” Steve asked. Suddenly all eyes were on them. Barton led him to a nearby alley as the crowd passed, seeking guidance at the town square.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Awww this is bad,” Clint groaned and squatted down. “It must have went down only about a couple hours after I left you at the tavern.”

Steve took him by the shoulders, seeing the white in Barton’s eyes. “Tell me. Now.”

"Yvonne. She’s dead.”

 


	6. A Duty to Call His Own

 

“As you can both see, the building is largely intact, with many of its security monitors and landlines functional,” Yvonne’s voice echoed through the vast structure. “I’m sure Stark could work wonders with this place.”

A dozen weathered lamps buzzed overhead as dust and debris floated in the draft they created. Fury noted three turret stands, two deactivated and the third stripped of parts, all near the entrances to the vast storage hall, which sat lifeless as a looted tomb.

Networks of lines and cables stretched out overhead, running between ventilation shafts and metal rafters. Located half-underground, the warehouse couldn’t afford them a clear view of the sunset that gripped the crest of the nearby plateau, but the orange light still filtered through the upper windows, which ran along the sides in long rows. The dying light cast an ember’s glow on Pierce’s face as he delved deeper in thought.

 “It will take some time and resources to restore the space,” Yvonne started, turning to Pierce, "but you were always good at fundraising, Pierce.

"Of course, Yvonne." He scratched his chin. "Do you think the hooks can sustain the Vertibird’s weight?” Pierce asked. His hands were clutched behind his back. His steps were short, almost impatient.

“That might be a question for Stark,” Yvonne said, gazing upwards at the hardware. “I’m sure he could figure something out. The guy’s a nut for this kind of stuff.” Pierce’s gaze moved from the hooks to the windows and he subtly moved the trio toward the metal staircase.

“Take us to the control center,” Pierce commanded.

 Yvonne led them up a metal staircase and into a glass-encased room. Several levers were broken off at the handle and entire keyboards were smashed in, but no debris was to be found. All around them was bulletproof glass. The room was a rare glimpse into the past. Every surface seemed to have been scrubbed clean. Fury cocked an eyebrow and turned to Yvonne, arms crossed. “You said that this warehouse was abandoned. It looks like someone’s been here recently with a mop in tow.”

“I’ve had a crew come in and take a look at it—mercs from Interstate. Greased a few palms to keep them nice and quiet,” Yvonne said, a proud smirk breaking out on her lips.

“Did you know about this, Pierce?” Fury said, directing his gaze at the man in the suit.

Pierce shook his head. "No, I did not,” he said, unblinking.

Pierce turned to her, eyebrow cocked and eyes severe. “Are you sure your ‘crew’ can be trusted?” he asked. “We’ve made amazing progress—we might even have a bona fide superhero help Project Insight to fruition. I would hate to see our investment sabotaged by a tawdry bunch of prospectors.”

Yvonne scowled, tapping her toe against the concrete. “I didn’t bring just any old raiders, Pierce. How stupid do you think I am? They've been coming to Interstate's market for years. I trust them.”

Pierce leaned luxuriantly against a nearby control panel, eyeing her and looking to Fury for support. The light was beginning to shift from orange to purples and blues. “People change, Yvonne. Sometime you only think you know someone, and, in a blink of an eye, everything you’ve built together crumbles and you’re left with only the dagger in your back.”

Fury stayed him with a swift raise of his hand. “I believe Alexander is trying to say that we shouldn’t count our chicks before they hatch. I’m sure he appreciates the gesture as much as I do, but please, for the sake of the Project, leave the facilities be until we can allocate appropriate muscle and techs.”

Yvonne gave Pierce the dirtiest look she could muster. Pierce did not return the gaze, instead focusing on the windows. She silently led them out of the central control chamber. A window shattered to Fury's right. Blood sprayed across steps. Yvonne lay in shambles on the metal staircase, blood gushing from between her eyes as her body slid down.

A second crack of gunfire issued from outside, one bullet clipping Fury’s arm and another whizzing through his trench coat. Searing pain streaking through his side, Fury dove forward, tackling Pierce to the nearest landing. Three more shots ricocheted off the wall above them.

The room was cast in dulcet blue as the twilight finally died out.

“Are you hurt?” Fury whispered in the darkness.

“Clipped my ear, but I’m alright,” Pierce grunted. Suddenly everything was quiet. Fury's mind raced, assigning the bullets to their assassin. His thoughts raced to explain his presence. One of Yvonne's mercs must have found a higher bidder.

“I told her not to trust those mercs,” Pierce said.

“Regret isn’t going to get us out of this hole. The sniper could still be watching. Any ideas?”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Pierce produced two metal boxes. Stealthboys. “I’m nothing if not prepared. You know me, Fury.”

Pierce raised himself to a crouching position and led Fury down the stairs. Another burst of covering fire broke through the windows that lined the warehouse, sending shards of glass raining down on them as they ran to the main shutters. Pierce laid the stealthboys on the floor. He flipped the metal coverings open, revealing the activation switches. Fury picked one of the metal boxes and attached it to his arm. 

"On my mark," Pierce said, "3, 2, 1, engage!" He and fury flicked the main switches and they vanished from sight, save for the slight shimmer where their bodies moved. Fury opened the shutters. They scanned the entrance and crept out invisibly into the night. Fury kept his breath low and said nothing, wary of each passing rock and ruin. Pierce was right behind him, boots crushing the gravel.

 

\+ + +

 

Doctor Sampson began his examinations, saying that Pierce was goddamn lucky to have only a slight injury on his ear instead of a hole through his forehead. He aptly stitched and bandaged Fury’s side, making similar comments. Fury had a nearby trainee find Barton and Rogers in their assigned quarters and three minutes later Barton was on the scene.

“Where the hell is Rogers?” Fury barked.

“He never returned to the barracks, sir,” Clint said. “I left him at the bar last night. Thought he’d report in soon after me, but he never did." They seated him and told them the harrowing tale of their escape and Yvonne's murder. Clint was silent on his stool, hands clenched over his knees, a slight sweat running down his forehead. He was to find Rogers and bring him to them immediately.

Clint saluted them, face gloomy but resolute, like an undertaker’s. “Understood. He couldn’t have gone far. I shouldn’t have left him last night.”

“No one knew the assassin would strike again so soon," Fury said. “It’s critical that Steve hear the developments as soon as possible, Barton. Bring him to the center of Interstate at dawn. We will be gathering the townspeople there. Make sure he’s present for our announcement.”

“If this doesn’t wake him up, nothing will,” Pierce said to Fury. "He can't rest on dead morality. He has to act now. There's no telling who will fall under the scope next." 

Barton nodded solemnly. He grabbed his satchel and jogged off.

Fury, steely and quiet, was already running the numbers in his head—the days of travel to the fallen aircrafts, the stimpacks, the bottles of water and rad-away that would be needed and consumed by Steve's outfit. His eye was red from lack of sleep and the sand thrown into his eyes by the harsh winds.

“I can't believe Yvonne is dead,” Doctor Sampson said, frowning bleakly as he tallied his wares, already readying his donations to the effort. “This has to stop.”

“We’re all deeply distressed by her loss,” Pierce said, standing up from his seat in the corner. “But mark my words, we will bring her killer to justice and restore order. At any cost.” Fury nodded at the doctor and they took their leave.

Fury and Pierce stood on his stoop as the crier readied her megaphone. She cleared her throat, finding her resolve. She called out. 

"Emergency: Class A, Emergency: Class A,” through the horn and it resounded throughout the town, vibrating off of the remains of the looming overpass.

Pierce turned to Fury. “What do you think Rogers will say after this?”

“It’s hard to say. The man’s seen the face of battle hundreds of times—wouldn’t be the first time a commanding officer of his has fallen. But sometimes he lets his ideals blind him—you heard what the man said yesterday.”

Pierce stepped down, leading Fury to the town square, steps slow and plotting, a practiced and studied pace. He folded his hands in front of him.

One by one, the people of Interstate emerged from their shacks, tents, and hovels, turning to one another with confusion and mounting panic. Fury and Pierce stepped up onto the creaky stage, waiting for their numbers to swell.

“Speak of the devil,” Fury said. He blew cigarette smoke into the biting morning air. Steve Rogers still stood out like a sore thumb, in spite of his change of uniform. Barton accompanied him, leading him through the throng. The sun broke over the top of the overpass as the crowd gathered. Everyone knew the score: the news would be unwelcome.

Pierce waited until he could see the white of Steve’s eyes before taking center stage, walking with a somber stride, hands still folded, as if he were giving a practiced oration rather than a near-improvised statement. Standing to his left, Fury waited patiently. He knew it would be best for Pierce to deliver the news. Fury’s approach to loss was silent, begrudging acceptance and a cigarette, not fit for consoling others.

“We have gathered you here this morning with heavy hearts,” Pierce started. “As inhabitants of the wasteland, we know that violence is ever pervasive. In times not long since past, the violent raiders induced daily hardship, vicious creatures birthed of atomic flame roamed far and wide and the spirit of neighborly duty was all but absent.

“The establishment of The SHIELD Concordat—a feat no one of us can singularly claim as his own—has since proven, however, that we are capable of handling such duty, of maintaining order in a world gone mad. It is in that spirit that I address you today.”

Rancor was beginning to blossom, silent in their suspense.

Pierce cleared his throat. "It is with great sadness, that I announce the following. At roughly 0200 hours, during a confidential meeting, a rogue sniper assassinated mayor Yvonne Curtis.” Stillness rushed over the crowd.

Steve looked left and right and saw eyes unblinking and mouths ajar. His eyes darted back to Pierce, whose face was blank but not untouched by the crowd's horrified visage.  Fury stepped forward, arm swinging wide to avoid his wound.

“The shooter, according to what Pierce and myself had experienced, was no novice. We believe that the shooter of the late mayor of Langely, Jebediah Riley, is the same figure who gunned down Yvonne.” Fury walked to the very edge of the stage, boots falling heavily onto the wooden planks. “And so help me God, she will be his last victim.”

“What are you going to do?” 

“Useless fuckers, both of you!” 

“How could you let her die?” 

“There could be a whole squad of these guys for all we know!” The crowd began to lose its cool, rushing the stage, shouting and beckoning and bawling and jeering. Steve and Clint were swept up in their tide and soon Steve found himself being hauled up onstage by Pierce and Fury. Fury stared him dead in the eye and said, “Hope you slept well, Rogers.”

Three gunshots rang to Steve’s left, leaving behind a tinny ring in his ear cavities. The crowd ducked down, many covering their heads and others with hands on their chests, feeling their racing hearts. Steve saw mothers clutching their children, faces wild and panicked. Fury lowered his magnum from which soft trails of smoke now issued.

“It happened that fast, people,” Fury called out. “How many of you were prepared for that? How many of you even noticed where that came from?” He paused. “That’s what I thought. Now, if you’d let us ‘useless fuckers’ continue, you’ll find out what we plan to do about it.”

Pierce straightened his tie. He wiped the blood from his ear and regained his composure, moving again to the center of the stage. “What he says is true. We have not only a plan, but a weapon, an aircraft hundreds of years old. One that will restore order.” Their faces twisted with apprehension, but glimmers of understanding. No one made a move to leave, but they sat on pins and needles.

“As of now, engineer Stark has the craft running at rudimentary levels. But it is not enough. For the vertibird to reach completion, we will need to draw on the collaborative spirit with which The S.H.I.E.L.D. Concordat was written.

“Excursions into the wasteland cannot be taken lightly and much is needed for a successful venture: food, water, ammo, and medical supplies.” People were beginning to listen and truly absorb his meaning and Pierce smiled at his ability to sway the crowd. “But it is a burden we all will bear together.” Pierce stepped back and gripped Steve’s shoulder.

Steve scanned the crowd, letting the breeze rush through his hair. The sun was bright, throwing all of their desperate faces into high contrast. Several knowing eyes focused on his features, linking them to the man immortalized in the comic strips tucked away in safes, hidden in drawers and prized for the brief respite they provided in the burnt squalor.

Fury stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “I know you have all heard the rumors, that Captain America, a hero thought to have perished over two hundred years ago, walks among us. Well, I am here to tell you that these rumors ring true. He walks among us once more, preserved from atomic fire.” Every pair of eyes was on him, scrutinizing and wide with disbelief and the burden of blooming hope.

Clint bounded up onto the stage and he turned to address them. “I know what all of you are thinking—shit, even I still think it sounds a little ridiculous--but it’s true. I’ve seen him in action. This guy can cover three klicks in five minutes if he really wanted to.” Barton slapped Steve on the shoulder.

“No doubt the assassin will be on his guard—will endeavor to destroy the craft or take it for whatever organization employs him,” Pierce said. “But Steve Grant Rogers, Captain America, will be there to push our project to completion.” The light returned to their eyes, the hope that just moments before moldered at the shocking news.

Pierce turned to him, eyes brimming with demanding expectation. “You’ve had your chance to sleep on it, Rogers. What are you going to do, Rogers?”

 

 

\+ + +

 

“I volunteer,” Steve said. 

His bony hands shook in his lap. The white clock ticked incessantly on the opposite wall. The curtains drifted in the breeze. Bland food sat untouched in a tray near Steve’s elbow. Dr. Abraham Erskine sat next to him, hands thoughtfully folded in his laps.

“I commend your selflessness, but I must warn you, there is no guarantee of success. The process of administering the serum itself could prove fatal to you as you are now,” Erskine said.

“I understand,” Steve said solemnly.

Erskine looked him straight in the eye. “And if we succeed, your life as you know it will cease to exist. Your life will be constant battle and service to the United States. Are you sure you are ready for such great responsibility?”

Steve winced as he readjusted himself in the bed, feeling the swell of bruises on his back and sides from the anti-war protests; a baton had cracked him in the skull, sending him straight from the front lines to a sterile hospital room. He longed to return, to make himself useful, to make things right. He looked Erskine square in the eye. 

“If there’s a chance that I can help put a stop to all of this—even if I don't make it out alive—then I can’t just stand by and do nothing. That's not how my mother raised me.”

Erskine’s face was a solemn smile and he thanked Steve. “I knew I was right about you, Mr. Rogers,” the doctor said. “You are practically a veteran already. Most people stay at home after their encounters with police brutality, but you never did. Always you returned to the fight.” Erskine fell quiet, hand on his chin, brows furrowed in consternation. “It is shameful how deaf your government’s ears are to her people's protests. Perhaps you can be their voice.”

Steve looked out the window. Bucky always took care of the little guy. He was always a good fighter. If Steve could alleviate just some of the pain that the world felt, then he could die happy.

Steve lay his head down as Erskine took his leave. A group of Erskine’s colleagues waited outside, anxious for Steve’s answer. The ward outside was chaos. Nurses wiped sweat from their foreheads and surgeons blood from their hands. The shadows beyond the blurred glass were ever-agitated as Steve dropped in and out of sleep. The commotion was at a boiling point, with other protestors and bystanders flooding the hospital, dozens being turned away; Steve cursed his expansive, private room, thanking God that he’d soon be able to earn his keep—to help end the war with the Chinese and Russians.

As soon as he was able to walk, Erskine and his colleagues came to spirit him away. The car ride was long, but smooth. With the fuel crisis reaching a boiling point, there were fewer and fewer cars on the road. By the time they reached Erskine's lab, Steve's heart was in his throat. Through secret chambers and metal corridors he was led. A lesser mind might have inflated, thinking that the grand spectacle of machinery and science were solely for him. Steve knew it was not for any one person, but for country and the pursuit of peace.

He was asked to strip and he complied. He eyed himself in the surrounding chrome, hoping that he would soon be relieved of his frail, useless form. In his darker moments, he would run off into the night, looking for a proving ground, leaving Bucky alone at their apartment, frustrated and reaching for the bottle. Steve needed to justify Bucky’s praise, refusing to believe that his small blip of an existence was good enough for him or for the countless soldiers that marched to Alaska—the front lines. 

Hours later, he would come back with a black eye or bleeding knuckles, which Bucky would nurse back to health with a shot of whiskey and a kiss on makeshift bandages. He would then envelop Steve in his arms as Steve cursed himself for the smallness of his shoulders and the hurt in Bucky’s eyes.

If only he knew then how fleeting and wonderfully quiet those moments would become as the clamor of war rushed in like a violent wave—eradicating footsteps in the sand, leaving behind solemn, blank shores. Steve never told Bucky, who looked like a dream and a nightmare both in his brown wool uniform, that he would be joining the throngs of protestors, singing and roaring and bleeding, fueling a purposeful fire in his belly. Steve was certain Bucky felt the same fire as he fought on the front lines, rifle in hand. 

Then Bucky stopped writing. Steve’s hands would grow cold as he reached the bottom of the mailbox. His eyes would glaze over when they failed to find the wiry scrawl of Bucky's hand. What the newspapers reported gave him no comfort; China was ever encroaching on the Alaskan pipeline, which contained civilization's last pathetic trickles of fossil fuel. He knew Bucky would be caught in it all. It was inevitable. Steve could not bear it. He was not doing enough

 If only Bucky could see Steve now, ascending the steps into the network of wires and tubes, ready to be remade. The pod hissed, sealing him inside. Needles stung his extremities and a frame slid over his head. His breath fogged the glass and he thought of pain and strife and how he would cast them away with arms made of steel. He knew Bucky would be angry with him, but he cast that thought aside as the blinding light surrounded him on all sides. Steve’s mouth opened in a loud cry.

 

\+ + +

 

The crowd at Interstate had regained their composure and gathered near Steve’s feet in growing crescents. He knelt down and climbed off the stage and mingled among them. A dark, taxing current simmered in their eyes. He gave no speeches, no trite words, but rather approached them as peers, a man of humble service rather than a superior. Pierce remained on the platform. Steve let them brush their knuckles against his shield. He confirmed and playfully denied the tales recounted in their comic strips and holotape dramas, never embellishing any details.

A little girl pushed her way through the forest of dusty legs, ponytail flying behind her. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked up at him with a weariness that belied her age. Without a word, she dug into her brahmin-leather satchel and retrieved a stimpack, shoving it into Steve’s palm. He broke into a bitter smile.

“Don’t die out there,” she said. Her father trailed close behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, embarrassment flooding his face at her tactless words.

“Don’t you worry about me,” Steve said, kneeling down to her level. “You just take care of your daddy, all right? Captain America will take care of the rest.”

Pierce stepped forward and cleared his throat. “The road ahead will be a long and treacherous one. Let this girl’s tenacious generosity be an example. We all must prepare to contribute to the cause. Any interested in the success of this project and their own safety are strongly encouraged to contribute, just as this selfless young lady has.”

She drew back into the crowd, her father following close behind. Steve balked at the idea of siphoning fuel out of their tanks, but it could not be helped. This effort was to go forward with or without him and perhaps with his newfound cooperative spirit, the burden on the beleaguered folk around him would be lightened in the long run.

Having absorbed the impact of the dictate, the townspeople dispersed, returning to their homes and jobs, murmuring in terse tones. Pierce smiled at Rogers, the new symbol of SHIELD Concordat. Pierce then nodded to Fury, and Fury led Barton and Steve to the barracks.

There they packed their supplies. “After we pack up here, we’ll be paying Stark another visit,” Fury said.

“Again?” Clint groaned.

“Pierce is updating Stark now. He’ll be furnishing us with an Eyebot so we can start extraction of the necessary parts as soon as possible.”

“Then what?”

“We proceed back to Sanctuary to gear up and collect donations. Drive-In will be closer that way, and your squad can scoop up Tony’s parts near there and move on.”

Soon the door of Vault 37 hissed open and Steve got a different view of Tony Stark. His eyes had lost their cocky gleam and his stride was slow and uncertain. "Yvonne’s dead. Shit.” Pierce took his leave, saying he had some messages to get back to Hillside.

Stark was still in shambles, collapsed in his stool at the corner of a nearby workbench. “Pull yourself together, Stark,” Fury said coolly. “Many more will follow her if we don’t focus.”

“Right,” Tony said. He waved his hand over a keyboard and his lab opened, still fluorescent and vibrant as before. He walked over to a crate and the lid whirred open, releasing an Eyebot into the air, antennae squeaking. It was about a foot in diameter, with a small screen and speakers attached to the front end, giving it a somewhat face-like appearance. 

“This little guy will give you access to me.” He held his pipboy to his mouth and spoke and his voice issued from a small speaker near the Eyebot’s anterior. “He’ll be there to instruct you all in excising the components.”

Barton walked up to the bot and flicked the screen. “You mean we have to chaperone this thing across miles of hostile territory?” An electric crackle shot from the Eyebot near Clint’s boot. Clint startled back, keening and cussing.

“You felt that, right? That was its primary defensive laser set to 1% capacity. As long as it gets plenty of sun, he should be good to go.” Tony lightened up when he boasted, but his fingers couldn’t find rest, fidgeting with knobs and buttons. Steve pursed his lips.

“I’m going to finish packing,” Clint said.

Fury and Clint showed themselves out. Steve, who could not bring himself to leave Tony’s side, insisted that he clear up some specs on the Eyebot and then they found themselves alone, the hum of computer monitors stretching out between them.

“You’re not going to ask if I’m okay, are you?” Tony said, returning to his technological ministrations at the keyboard.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Steve said. “I didn’t know Yvonne, but she seemed to be a capable leader.”

“Yeah. She was.” He made a habit of shutting others out, it seemed, and in spite of their previous intimacy, Steve was allowed no access to his pain. He didn’t begrudge the lack of tears or explanation. Perhaps it was simply the way the wastelanders approached loss.

Steve was turned to leave him to his private mourning when Tony told him to wait. “Just let me say something." Steve cocked an eyebrow. "I’m looking forward to working with you. Hell, maybe someone’ll write a few new issues of ‘Captain America’ after this is all over.”

“Yeah. Maybe they will.” Steve grabbed Tony by the shoulder and gave it a hearty shake. Tony smiled softly.

 

\+ + +

           

Steve couldn’t sleep that night, though he was tucked quietly in his own dirty cot at Sanctuary. Whether it’s nerves from the fast approaching journey or displaced dread, he could not tell.

Throughout the late hours of night and the early hours of morning, he’d doze off, only to wake up to waves of bewilderment. Parts of him still expected the circumstances to vanish like a sour dream. Each time, before his eyes adjusted to the dulled, stale light, his mind supplied the scenes he wanted to see—the long-suffering ceiling fan of their old, rundown apartment, the off-white stucco ceiling of their apartment that stood here over two-hundred years ago, or even the gray-green steel of an Alaskan bunker.

Around sunrise, he couldn’t help but laugh; he imagined “Captain America: The Insomniac #1” on dime store shelves, the pathetic lump of his body under covers inked on trading cards, a lunch box featuring blood-shot blue eyes. He swung his feet over the edge and rose, accepting that sleep would have to wait.

A low bellow sounded from outside, interrupting his desperate fantasies. He pulled on his boots. Climbing on the crate, he pushed the iron shutter aside and peeked out the window. In the orange-red light, he saw a man near the stables. Sam cursed.

Steve slipped on an undershirt and ran outside. Shotgun the Brahmin lay in the soil, sides heaving with deep breaths. “Shotgun’s crowning,” Sam said. “Good timing, eh?” He wiped blood and pre-birth on his apron.

“How long have you been out here?” Steve asked.

“A while now,” Sam said.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. I got this. You can stay and watch if you want. Keep the ol' girl company.”

Four dark eyes seemed to concentrate solely on Rogers, expectant and tired. The heads lulled in an endless groan. Sam, awaiting any complications, kept close watch on Shotgun. “All right, here's the final push.” He stepped back, letting Shotgun generate another life to roam the wasteland.

An hour later, the calf was cleaned and quivering through its first steps. “It’s a boy,” Sam said.

“What do you want to name him?”

“I don’t know. Nothing springs to mind. Guess we’re all still shaken up by Yvonne’s passing, huh?” The calf’s heads bleated alternately, coat still slick in the morning light. “’Insight?’ Nah, that’d be lame.”

“'Earl,'” Steve said. “What about ‘Earl?’”

Sam, noticing the sudden distance in Steve’s voice, nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I like that. ‘Earl’ it is then.” The calf’s heads cried out and Steve smiled.

 

\+ + +

           

Nick Fury, lacking the flashy pomp of Alexander Pierce, preferred to employ frank language when addressing Sanctuary's residents. He could have used his stoop as a pundit, but instead preferred to sit at the bar, quietly burning through a fresh pack of cigarettes while the townsfolk stepped forward with their brief questions. Phil sat with Barton up in his roost, arm hooked about his waist, scanning the crowd and measuring the tension. Fortunately, Earl had proved an effective distraction for the children; they offered him handfuls of corn and he accepted them, letting the kernels dribble from his mouths into the dirt.

Steve was in his cabin cleaning gun barrels and reloading spent casings, reluctant to put himself on display, thinking it disrespectful to Yvonne. Fortunately they didn't demand his presence. The townsfolk in Sanctuary had grown used to him; they knew not to bother him during his preparations. He laid out the contents of his rucksack, making sure each pocket and compartment was packed with maximum efficiency. Just as he finished with a third revision, he heard a creak at his door.

He swiftly turned and caught Natasha in the doorway, packed and prepared. “Long time no see,” she said simply.

“Hello,” he said, turning back to his supplies. “Anything you need?”

“Fury wants us ready to leave in two hours, but I see you got the memo.”

“Us?”

She crossed her arms. “We can be travel-buddies can’t we?”

Steve leaned against the table. “I thought Coulson was in the roster.”

She lounged on his ragged couch. “Fury wants him by his side—no telling what could happen if he let his guard down.  Every pair of eyes helps.”

“They do,” Steve said. He joined her on the couch, trying to get a read on Natasha. “I don’t want to start this endeavor out on the wrong foot, so I want to ask you something.”

“Really? Let’s make a deal, then. For every question you ask, I get to ask you one as well. Even-Steven.” Natasha said, hands clasped together over one knee.

Steve scoffed, dropping his chin to his chest. Natasha had never seen his face so playfully bright, as if he were a mere boy again, sharing secrets between classes. “Deal.” He took a breath. “Why are you always watching me? You’re always just out of sight, but I’ve seen you. You said you’re not a spy, but you sure act like one, Romanov.”

Searching for words, she considered his face with cautious eyes. “I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t snap.”

“Snap?”

She sat up and strolled to his bookshelf. Idly flipping through _Captain America and the Lotus Menace #4_ , she said that Coulson had told her about the Resource Wars; how it left fields bloody and minds barren in its wake, how no one saw any light at the end of the tunnel, how soldiers were shipped back home broken and buckled. 

“You’ve seen the worst of it and you didn’t even have the training some of your superiors had. I wanted to know if the wasteland would be the final straw. And,” she turned away, “if it ended up that way, I wanted to be nearby…so I could reduce the collateral damage.”

Steve was silent. She stared him down, unblinking. She was taut like a bowstring, ready to pounce, nearly regretting her frankness. Steve shook his head. “Thank you for being straight with me, Natasha. This operation will require clear communication. We'll need to be honest with each other if we are to trust one another.”

“Let’s practice then, shall we?” Natasha said, sliding onto the coffee table before him. “Who was Bucky?”

Steve felt a pang of longing dart through his mind. “You already know who he was. Coulson must have told you by now.”

She shook her head. “No, I know who James Buchanan Barnes was, not Bucky.”

“Where have you heard that name, anyway?” Steve asked, genuinely perplexed. In Steve’s long running comic book career, Bucky had been reduced to a footnote, a background character in the comic strips, one who bore no resemblance to the real article. Captain America was a myth and Steve Rogers’s reality had no place in it.

“You talk in your sleep,” Natasha cocking an eyebrow. “So...who was he?”

Steve squirmed in his seat, but he answered truthfully, favoring the utility of Natasha’s trust over a memory, though it pained him to speak his name aloud. Slowly he steeled himself and began.

When he was on a mission, he kept all parts of his brain active—how much water he had left, how many bullets remained, how much he could carry—but, in the remote corners of his mind, Bucky was there, mouth fixed in a permanent smile, always ready to crack a dirty joke, to laugh, to plant a kiss.

It was hard to explain someone who was so alive and warm, a brother-in-arms, a friend and lover rolled into one impossible person. He was James Buchanan Barnes. He had been dead for two hundred years, but Steve's loss was still raw, bleeding into the edges of his new life. Ask his hand, and it would say that it had touched Bucky only months ago, ask his mouth and it remembered the curving trails it paved on Bucky's skin; calendars and decay are not so easily fooled. The years spent with Bucky collapsed onto him again, as it had on so many lonely nights. Steve cradled his head in his hands, shoulders slumped and softly convulsing there on the couch.

“I don’t even…I don’t remember why we were at that cryo lab in the first place, or how I went under. The cryogenics just smeared everything around,” Steve paused, raking his memory. “All I know was that he was there, on the other side of the glass…he said he had faith in me.” His face crumpled and he covered it with his dirty hands. Natasha sat near him, resting one solitary hand on his shoulder.

“That night when you snuck out, the day I followed you out to the labs,” she started, “you were looking for Bucky.”

Steve sighed, throat clogged and wet. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “You said ‘even-steven’ remember?” Natasha merely nodded..

“That wasn’t a question. Just a fact,” Natasha said. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crowd scatter, no doubt readying their donations to Project Insight. Natasha’s hand never left his shoulder and he let it linger. It was strange to say his name aloud in such a place and to such a person, but he was thankful for the company and the eyes that accepted his show of humanity and vulnerability.

She stood up slowly and gathered her rucksack. “We better get going. We still need to meet Pierce’s rep and report to Fury.”

“Pierce is sending someone?”

Natasha’s radio released a burst of static. She held it to her ear, asking Barton for a status update. “I spotted something through my scope. A man in a trench coat is out there—it looks real bad. He’s surrounded by Junkers—I can tell by their armor.”

She sprang toward the door. “Distance?”

“Approximately three klicks out. I have my 5-scope on.”

Steve followed her outside and she was already half way up the ladder. “Can you get a clear shot?”

“The Junkers are circling around him too much. I don’t want to risk hitting him. Besides, any gunfire would just provoke them.”

Natasha pulled out her binoculars. They raced over to the gates.“They mean to kill. They don’t form a circle unless they want blood.”

Steve was at Clint's side in an instant, squinting through a cracked lens. The man in the trench coat was still, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring his features. Steve has heard stories about the Junkers and their sadistic tendencies; it didn’t matter if you begged or went down fighting, every encounter ended in a bloodbath. Steve cast aside the telescope and bounded down, landing in a roll and leaping to his feet in a rapid sprint, Barton’s voice fading sharply behind him.

In five minutes flat he closed the distance, chest heaving with effort. The Junkers cast their gaze just soon enough to catch one of their rank go down under the weight of Steve’s body. He swung his arm to the left, cracking another in the jaw with the edge of his shield.

He caught a glimpse of the mysterious man out of the corner of his eye, a sly smile spread and he rolled away, a rifle butt cracking against another Junker’s surprised skull. Steve leapt back, avoiding the swing of a sledgehammer, which circled wide and collided with another Junker’s chest, caving in his armor and crushing his sternum.

Three more gunshots resounded and Steve felt two more bodies crumple into the ground. A kick to the jaw sent another Junker flying into a boulder, teeth scattered in a small arc in his wake. The ones who did not return fire were quickly shadows on the horizon, fleeing and cursing.

Then everything fell quiet. Steve looked around and found the man in the trench coat standing behind a boulder, with the rattle of improvised armor at his feet. Steve rounded the corner. The man in the trench coat had his barrel pointed at the remaining Junker.

“I-I didn’t h-have any choice. Ya gotta believe me. They would’ve gutted me if I didn’t go with them,” a tiny voice said, hands trembling above his head.

The man in the trench coat stepped toward him, yanking off his helmet, exposing a youthful, downtrodden face. The man was silent. He held his rifle, pointing it at the lone Junker, who was on his knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts.

“How many?” the man asked.

“W-what?” the Junker choked out.

The man took off his hat, letting a greasy pompadour sway in the wind. His dark eyes peered down the iron-sights. “How many people did you cut down, how many did you rape and torture?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” the youth replied.

“Don’t lie to me. Junkers don’t let just anyone wear their marks without an initiation. Now spill it,” the man said, mouth in a tight sneer. Steve approached them slowly, empty hands carefully held out in front of him.

“This is my first time out,” the youth cried, “I never hurt anyone, I swear.” Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting through the soot and dirt. Steve saw them readily, but the other man’s eyes glazed over and suddenly looked miles away. “I’m begging, I’m on my fuckin’ knees beggin’, man. Don’t shoot. Please.”

The man tightened his grip, Steve leapt forward but it was too late. Blood smacked wet against the back of the boulder and the youth's body slumped over. The barrel was soon turned on him, but Steve saw awareness return to the man’s eyes and he dropped his rifle to his side. “You must be Rogers.”

“You shot him,” Steve said, anger seething in his voice. “He was on his knees, begging for his life and you shot him in cold blood.”

“He was a pest,” the man walked over to his discarded hat, picked it up and dusted it off, as if the flecks of blood could be batted off as easily as the gravel. The hat cast a deep shadow over his face. “Like I said, you don’t just _wear_ Junker armor like it’s nothing. You're either one of them, or one of us. There is no in-between.”

Steve stepped toe-to-toe with the man. “You did not give him a chance. He could’ve found a place in another town and left this all behind. Those weren’t the tears of a killer.”

The man scoffed and stepped back. “At first I was a bit skeptical about this whole trip, but Pierce was right. I’ll be needed after all.” He tucked the rifle under his arm. “You may be a superhero, Rogers, but you’re still naive. If I had let that Junker go, he would’ve planted a bullet in each of our skulls _long_ before we felt warm and fuzzy about our ‘good deed.’”

“Pierce sent you? _You’re_ his representative?”

The man spat in the dirt. “I don’t represent him. I represent S.H.I.E.L.D.’s interests. You may have super strength, but you lack vision.” He cracked a wry, toxic smile and held out his hand. “I’m Brock Rumlow. Looks like we'll be working together.”

Steve made no move to shake Rumlow's hand. He started his way back to Sanctuary. Rumlow was quiet and considered Steve with bland disappointment. On the trek back, Steve had to remind himself of the larger picture—a wasteland free of thugs, one where mercenaries and sleepless nights on the road were a thing of the past. However, whenever Steve’s eyes met Rumlow’s, he felt an insidious dread grow in his stomach. Steve was right about the teenager who lay lifeless in the dust. He was afraid he was right about Rumlow as well.

 


	7. A Survivor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I have been late in updating. I had another unrelated project that I needed to work on. I am also busily drafting the rest of the fic. I don't want to leave too many of the themes untouched (you'll see) and I had to redraft the flow of the plot. 
> 
> Here's a nice long chapter to atone for my absence. I hope you enjoy it.

 

The sun hung hot and baleful in the sickly yellow sky. A blistering gale pitched through a dry canal, buffeting the steel casing of Tony’s Eyebot, sending it spiraling through the air. Steve led the group through the arid landscape. Brock brought up the rear, slow, languid steps somehow managing to match Steve's brisk pace. Back at Vault 37, Tony watched their progress through a small monitor, gulping down stale coffee and reviewing his blueprints.

They passed a toxic mire. The wings of bloatflies stirred the toxic gases as they meekly rose to antagonize the party. Barton expertly pitched jagged rocks, catching them between their segmented eyes and sending them spiraling into the ooze. “A hundred points for Hawkeye Barton!” he roared, throwing his hands into the air. Steve looked back, catching Natasha’s half-smile and Brock’s grimace. Even the idea of play seemed to repulse him.

Two more klicks down the road, they decided to rest in the shade of a hollowed out grocer's, knowing the sun would soon reach its full intensity. Natasha expertly picked the lock and they were in. The shop was nearly abandoned, save for the crisp skittering of radroaches. It was still as death, but some supplies could be seen scattered here and there. Barton marked it on his pipboy’s map for another time.

The third floor afforded a surprisingly expansive view of the wasteland, and Steve settled there, biting into his rations. Clint joined him. He pointed toward a jagged dot on the horizon. “There,” he said, “That’s where Phil rescued me.”

Steve squinted in the harsh light. Clint turned to him, dismissing the memory. “What about you? Do you remember anything about this area? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna.”

The horizon was sparse, but Steve slowly began erecting the walls of Fort Roxbury, the park by the lake and the rows of little white houses with their tidy gardens and white-picket fences. Despite the idyllic scenery, the town still had war lingering below the surface; Steve and the other soldiers often blazed past bake-sales, quaint lemonade stands and awkward first-dates, leaving anxious smiles and uncertainty. Such was life on the military base, though it was becoming harder for him to imagine that such a life once existed here at all.

Steve approached the windowsill and cast an arm to the east. “Fort Roxbury proper stood over there—my partner and I had been stationed there, though it was supposed to be temporary. We had been here for a couple months before the Great War.” He angled his arm. “If you squint, you can make out the communications tower from here, in the northwestern section.”

“Stationed” was a generous term. It implied that he was present for a distinct use and purpose.

“Yeah? That point there?” Clint pointed toward a crumbling alcove of the old fort’s wall. A peak rose above the brick and mortar, rising to a point. Steve nodded. “What about the lake? What did you used to call it?”

“Lake Liberty. Soft green grass and trees thick with leaves.” Steve shrugged and smiled. “We all knew it was manmade, but still, it was a nice spot. The park was always crowded with military families, but there was a quiet cove where you could get some privacy.” Steve scratched the back of his head; he remembered blue eyes softening in the dark, uniforms lying crumpled on the rock bed, the feel of sand against his skin.

Clint broke into a goofy, accusing grin. He punched Steve lightly on the shoulder. “You old dog.” Steve had no reason to contradict him.

A heavy thumping interrupted them. Brock stood in the empty doorway, face flat and austere. “We need to get going,” he said.

Steve frowned. “Of course.” They followed. As they reached the first floor, a muffled burst of static vibrated against the flimsy door. Natasha was seated across from the eyebot, nearer than she had dared to situate herself before. She cast her gaze to Steve and Clint, avoiding Brock’s inspecting gaze. Steve leaned in close to the eyebot as the group filed out the door.

“Getting a little close there, Capsicle,” Tony said. “Why don’t we wait till later for that, eh?” Steve rolled his eyes, but remembered the feel of stubble against his throat. Comfort these days was hard to come by, and he couldn’t bring himself fully dismiss him.

 

\+ + +

           

The sky was more purple than orange when they reached their destination. A factory was frozen mid-collapse. It seemed to blend into the landscape, as if its architect designed it that way. Jagged metal and broken glass hung uselessly in the air, rimming the cavernous hole in its side. The manmade lake had claimed half of the building, entering through the opening at the massive structure’s side.

“Lake Liberty?” Clint asked.

“The one and only. It looks like the water from the lake is flooding the lower levels, just like Stark said,” Steve noted, gesturing toward the destruction. “The earth must have shifted from the force of the atomic blasts,” Steve said. "I don't remember this facility being so close to the edge of the water."

“’Lake Liberty?’ Seriously?” Natasha said, crossing her arms and cocking a playful eyebrow.

Steve huffed. “Don’t worry, everyone at Fort Roxbury thought the name was tacky too.” They began their descent to the building’s main entrance. “It was exhausting, being subject to endless, blind patriotism. Wartime is bizarre that way. Before China invaded Alaska, this lake probably had a different name.” He held out a hand as they made their way down and counted on his fingers. “’Freedom Fries,’ ‘Nuka-Cola: Red, White & Blue,’ ‘Lady Liberty’ cigarettes, ‘Bald Eagle Lager’—“

“’Captain America’ comics?” Tony said.

"Yes, ‘Captain America’ too,” Steve said, furrowing his brow, hand grazing his shield.

Brock chuckled. It was like hearing a hyena cackle. “That’s rich, but now’s not the time for a history lesson,” Brock said, flipping on his pipboy light. Clint’s eyes darted from Steve’s to the eyebot and he rolled his eyes. Brock and Natasha circled the building, settling on a door opposite the flooded side. The door was sealed shut, with neither keyboards nor keycard readers to be found. “It looks like the building shut itself off as a security measure,” Brock said coolly. “Interesting.”

Clint squinted and pointed up. “There’s an opening about two stories up. Any volunteers?”

Natasha stepped up to Steve. “I’ll take a running start from that tree. You kneel down and force me up with your shield as a launching pad.” Steve nodded and she jogged to the tree and called out to him. “You ready, muscles?”

Clint and Brock cleared a path and Natasha began her sprint. Two yards from Steve, she flipped forward, boots landing against his shield and he thrust up with arms and legs, propelling her into the air. At her apex, she caught the sides of the cracks and stabilized herself in the hollow. She gave a thumbs-up and crept inside. The green light of her pipboy faded into the dark and they waited.

Ten minutes later, the heavy steel doors slid open, struggling against years of rust and decay. On the inside, the rest of the steel doors remained locked shut, leaving only the first corridor to be explored. When Steve waved his pipboy light, he saw that each door had numbers painted on them in a crude hand—with several numbers repeating themselves.

“The entrances were cut off from the main board—we’ll have to find the internal systems to open up the remaining passages. The vertibird should be in the flooded parts of the building. The lower basement levels are our destination.”

Steve turned to Tony’s eyebot. “How did your scouts find this vertibird if the building was in lockdown?”

“Good question. Let me enlighten you: only a small handful of this particular model was ever produced. They used a very specific type of atomic fuel for them. All I needed to do was scan for the isotope. Don’t worry, Rogers, I know what I’m doing.”

They divided into two groups. Rumlow fought Steve all the way, insisting that he pair with Natasha, but Steve needed her computer expertise. He then insisted that he set out alone. “No, it will be safer in groups, Rumlow.” Brock stormed off once more, throwing an accusing glance to Natasha.

“Keep an eye on him,” Steve said to Clint. Natasha and Steve headed west while Tony’s eyebot, Clint and Brock headed east.

Damp dark enveloped them on all sides, each breath cloying their lungs. The walls were slick to the touch from centuries of water vapor traveling through the ventilation ducts.

In the peripheries of his hearing, Steve sensed labored shuffling behind some of the doors. Perhaps radroaches had crept in here and made themselves at home. They heard a loud crash behind another door. Natasha crept closer to listen and the clamor rose up again, banging on the door. “Let’s leave that one be, shall we?” she said.

Their progress through the building was slow, constantly impeded by sealed doors and caved in walls. A burst of static stopped them in their tracks. “Who’s there?” a raspy, dry voice demanded. Steve spun around, finding an intercom socketed into the wall. He crept closer, keeping as still as he could. “I know someone’s there. Come on, out with it!” The voice was grating and impatient.

“Who wants to know?” Steve ventured cautiously.

The voice let out a dry cackle. “A bit rude isn’t it? Breaking into someone’s home and throwin' your weight around like you own the joint.” The voice hacked into the intercom and Steve instinctively covered his mouth and nose. “Well, the joke’s on you wise guy. You all may have gotten away last time, but this time you won’t be so damn lucky.”

“I swear, we have never stepped foot in here before. Had I known—”

“Wait! I know that voice.” The raspy voice faded away. Another great rustling and clanging sounded through the small speaker, the mumbling voice barely audible among it. They heard a metal clicking and static. A different sound radiated out of the intercom, the sound of applause and brass and pomp, drenched in age and static.

“I, Captain Steve Rogers, and my crew affirm that the United States will resolve the Russo-American nuclear tensions. With the Russian nuclear arms development exposed to the U.N., we will endeavor to end this deadly conflict before it begins, with diplomacy, peaceful negotiation and commitment to the common good of all.” The crowd cheered and whistled and suddenly ceased, a fitting caesura for humanity’s downfall, Steve thought.

The voice returned. “God, I must have heard that speech a thousand times now—on the TV and the radio. My holotape’s a bit worn out, though. But your face was plastered everywhere after you came back safe and sound from the USSR! Freakin’ unbelievable. You’re Captain America, aren’t you?”

Steve’s heart began racing. Someone else made it through atomic fire, someone who knew the world before. If this man made it, Steve thought, who else could have emerged from the destruction? “Yes, yes I am. Who are you? How did you survive the bombs?” Steve was inches away from the intercom, hands planted on either side to steady himself beneath the weight of his visions and hopes. Natasha stood near, arms crossed and mind moiled in contemplation.

“Oh,” the voice started, interrupted by another sandy cough, “you probably don’t remember me. I remember I saw you at another rally—you were all done up in your uniform and everything. I remember that after your speech you went out into the crowd and started shaking hands. And you shook my hand. Mine! It’s been so long since I’ve thought of any of this, but I remember being so excited about it. I told damn near everyone I knew. I shook hands and brushed shoulders with a legend.” The man coughed again, the excitement of his voice irritating his ragged vocal cords.

Steve combed through his memories, coming up with dozens and dozens of such occasions. All of them blended into a red, white, and blue stupor, ever blighted by anxieties international. He wanted to bring peace, he told Erskine. He never wanted celebrity and blinding lights, or scripts and shows—none of it—but increasingly he found himself the unwilling face of patriotism, war and insidious propaganda.

He looked at his palm. Hundreds of hands clutched his, grasps filled with desperate hope and raving patriotism—“You wipe out ‘em Chinese, you hear?” “Help bring my boys back.” “Bring democracy to those commie Russians!”

“You probably don’t remember, but my name was Frank Addison,” the voice said.

Natasha’s hand was on his shoulder and she swung him around, mouthing words to him, “Get him to help us.”

Steve turned to the intercom. “Frank, listen. I’m gonna need your help.”

The voice was silent for a long time. Natasha tilted her head and waited. “What kind of help?”

Steve reported what they knew about the vertibird that rested in the ruins beneath them and the menace that currently roamed the wasteland, biding his time until the next kill. The voice was silent again.

“He’s not going to help us, Steve,” Natasha said.

“I was just thinkin’ is all,” the voice shot back. “And I’ve decided that I will, thank you very much. I’ll help you, Captain.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. They needed to get moving and fast.

“I’m not sure if I trust your friend yet, so I’m gonna have to be a little cautious. I’m still a bit rattled from my last brush with outsiders. They were a bit lacking in diplomacy, you see.”

“I understand," Steve said, throwing Natasha a glance.

“And I want you to promise something,” the voice said, meekly.

“What do you need us to do?” Steve said.

“I don’t want any of my friends hurt, you hear me? The men that came here before weren’t so friendly.” The voice paused.

“You have my word,” Steve said. “I won’t let any harm come your companions.”

A sigh of relief traveled over the intercom. “Alright then, lets’ get started.”

 

\+ + +

 

Tony watched them through his monitor. Clint followed Brock through the winding halls, always one step behind. Brock was tight-lipped and leery. Clint could do nothing to elicit any info from him, as all of his questions went unanswered and eventually he stopped trying. Something rubbed him the wrong way. Rumlow's gaze was always distant and vacant, the same detachment that his captors exhibited. 

Still, they were here for a purpose. Clint attempted each door, but all were sealed shut. Around another corner, he reached for a lever and jumped back. The doors shuddered under the pressure of ravenous clawing and banging. Rumlow watched him. “At least they’re trapped in there, right?” Clint said. No response.

Tony took a swig of whiskey and inserted Nick Fury’s hard drive into his computer. Dozens of lines flitted across the monitor, analyzing the data that Natasha had dutifully and patiently retrieved for him. JARVIS floated nearby. “Mr. Rumlow could use a lesson in manners,” JARVIS handily suggested.

“Or he could just take that stick out of his ass.” Tony’s eyes scanned the data. Vault-Tec came up repeatedly in the code, always as an external filter. The cryo labs weren’t anywhere near a vault. Only scrambled data was left behind, but Tony knew better. A vault had definitely interfered with the lab's computer system. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, brought the microphone up to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You know, for a man who has never stepped foot in this building, you sure look like you know where you’re going.”

“And what if I have? There aren’t any laws against a little exploration, just ask your scouts.”

The eyebot floated ahead of Rumlow, stopping him in his tracks. “I still think it’s a marvelous coincidence, how suddenly all my scouts reached their destination and found the parts I needed—almost like someone finally gave his permission.”

Tony’s eyes returned to the data. Vault-Tec has the capability of wiping data in that manner. However, if you knew where to look—and Tony Stark always knew where to look—then you can find fingerprints left behind. Vault 37 was out of the picture. Hell, he had to rebuild a good half of it to get its systems to basic functionality. His mind ran at a mile a minute when he saw the Vault-Tec signatures. The only other vault he knew of was at Hillside. From what he heard, it was near pristine.

Rumlow’s dark eyes seemed to peer directly into Tony’s. “Sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

“Me? Oh, I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I’m just trying to make some conversation.”

Tony stepped away from the microphone, confident that the eyebot would remain intact. Barton was watching over it, and Tony still needed to instruct them on the excision of the machinery, something even Rumlow wouldn’t be able to pull off alone. He pulled out the drive once the transfer was complete and set it near the others, knowing that yet another rested in Natasha’s pocket.

When he returned, Brock was right in front of the eyebot’s camera. “Don’t think you can hide in your hole forever, Stark. Sooner or later, your usefulness will wear out.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Clint said. “Sounds like a threat to me.”

“It’s not a threat,” Rumlow muttered. “Just a fact.”

 

\+ + +

 

“Now what you’re gonna want to do is head down to the end of this hall here and take a left. After that, head to the end of another hall and you’ll see two doors. You’ll want the one with the number 6 painted on.”

Natasha led the way. Steve trailed behind her, trying to get his head around Frank’s survival. By the sound of his voice, he was in bad shape, but he was alive, and that is what mattered. They took a left. The second cryo pod came to mind. That must be it, Steve thought. There was another person inside of it, just like Natasha had said earlier. He remembered the dried blood collecting in shallow puddles near the bottom rim of the pod. He shuddered imagining the pain that an early emergence must have brought on and what might have been left behind.

His steps became slow; try as he might to be happy for Frank, to be glad that someone from his time remained, his stomach sunk low with disappointment. The mire of emotion then solidified into self-effacing regret. He could not cast any blame to Frank’s corner. IT wasn't his fault Bucky didn't make it.

Still, Steve lingered on what life in Sanctuary might have been like with Bucky by his side and how it almost came to pass. Bucky was on the other side of the glass, breath clouding its surface, hands against the frost. So close to survival.

He would keep his word to Frank. He knew the harsh reality of loss and Frank lost just as much as he did that day.

“Ok, we’re at the door six,” Natasha said into the nearby intercom.

“Alright, I just need to cross a few wires,” Frank said. A jolt pounced through the door’s circuitry and the light at the top of the steel frame blinked on, buzzing in the surrounding dark. It rattled and slid open. “Head down two flights of stairs and take two rights. My office will be near the end of that hall and I’ll tell you how to reach the vertibird from there. And,” a pause, “prepare for the smell. I’ve gotten pretty used to it, but it's bad.”

The Geiger counter softly crackled and Natasha quickly popped a Rad-X, prompting Steve to do the same. It would keep them safe from the harsher radiation for a time. As soon as the door rose the smell hit them, forcing Steve to cover his mouth and nose with a gloved hand while Natasha tied a bandana around her face and pressed on. Rotting meat filled their nostrils and stung their eyes.

Natasha held her left arm out and guided them down the stairs, hopping over gaps in the staircase. When they reached the bottom, a slight movement caught Steve’s eyes, forcing his attention to the expansive hollow beneath the staircase. A group of five bodies lay in a low shed of contaminated water, their bones curdling in the dark, empty eye sockets staring blindly up the stairwell. The clothes covering them were tatters and their arms were crossed over their chests. It was a mass grave.

“The others did this—the men who came before you. They killed them like they were wild animals.”

“My God,” Steve breathed. “Do you know where the men came from?”

Another pause. “I’m-I’m not sure. They weren’t your run-of-the-mill raiders or junkies, that’s for sure. A couple of ‘em had that fancy power armor on—the kind that we sent over to Alaska after the Chinese invaded,” Frank rasped. “They had this weird flunky with ‘em, cold eyes and dirty long hair. And his arm—it was like something out of a comic book. It was made of metal. Cyborg science fiction kinda stuff.”

Natasha’s eyes grew wide and she pushed Steve aside. “What were they looking for?”

“Let’s just worry about what you guys came here for, eh? Too many bad memories,” Frank muttered.

Natasha marched off, taking the first right while Steve jogged after her. The smell failed to dissipate and in fact seemed to grow in strength as they reached the end of the corridor. Another light blinked on and the door whirred open. Several monitors buzzed in the background, a few of the screens flickering and struggling to function in the damp. There was no one to be seen, no bodies, no Frank. A last intercom flicked on.

“Home sweet home,” Frank’s voice echoed. There was another chamber adjacent and behind it, the scuffling of life could be made out. Frank must still be on edge.

Natasha made her way to the monitors and motioned for Steve to follow. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Steve, you know how you hate secrets?”

“What?”

She whipped out a hard drive similar to the one Fury handed to Stark on their trip to Interstate. “Stark’s been doing some analysis.”

“Is this for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“No. This is Fury's endeavor.” Her eyes were set on his, sharp and commanding. “Someone’s been doing a little independent study. We’re on the verge of knowing who." 

"What do you mean?" 

"This area used to be a military base, right? Just think of the damage all this old weaponry could do if it fell into the wrong hands." Steve resisted at first, but if Fury wanted to stem the flow of top-secret military secrets, then Steve had no reason to argue.

"I just need you to get Frank to trust me. By the looks of things, he has his fingers in every computer system here, and this may be my one shot of getting the information that S.H.I.E.L.D. needs to keep safe.”

Steve nodded. “I understand.”

“You guys are awful quiet in there,” Frank interjected. He was nearer this time, no longer solely reliant on the intercoms to push his gravelly voice through. Steve walked to the middle of the room, water slogging in his boots. A light flashed to life in the next room and a murky shadow lingered behind a bulletproof window. Steve made his way over, but could not make out any details, just the rough shadow of a man’s head and shoulders.

“Frank, I need to ask you something.”

“What is it, Captain?”

“You said there were others who came before us. We need to know what they were after.”

“They were looking for the main computers here. But they were all the way in the basement, near the water. I told ‘em that it was dangerous, the dark and whatnot. And I told ‘em that my friends had a bad territorial streak," the voice trailed off as Frank delved into memory.

“…They just broke down all the doors, pointing their guns this way and that. Eventually I let ‘em into the main computer room, just to try to get them to stop.

“And the man with the metal arm…he didn’t say a single word as he gunned down my friends. It was like he was a killer robot or something. He just followed every order without saying nothin’!” The voice retreated into the distance and the sound of clanging arose once more. Frank cursed as he kicked the metal crates, every crash resonating through the server room. The heavy blows smashed into nearby doors. Frank must be behind there, keeping watch over the dead, drowning in his mire of anger and mourning. Steve surged forward and went to the door, speaking calmly through the steel.

“Frank, listen to me. You did the best you could, it's not your fault,” Steve said. He shook his head and collapsed against the door, left knee submerged in the warm water. “I should be the one that’s angry. Everyone I know, everything I ever knew, gone. And I’m to blame. I wasn’t a good enough soldier. I couldn’t stop the Chinese or the Russians or the Americans from blowing each other to bits. I'm trying to make up for that, Frank. I need you to focus and help me.”

Silence erupted on the other side. The shadow slid into view. An arm was raised and the slow tap of a finger against a keyboard stuttered out. The door slid open. Steve jumped to his feet, eyes wide.

 

\+ + +

 

Brock descended a flight of stairs, leading Clint and the eyebot to a technological labyrinth.

“Looks like it’s right up your alley, Stark.” Clint said. “Any idea what any of it is for?”

“Official records say it was a maintenance building. Before it sunk into the lake, the building sported a wide array of servers and lines of cable running for miles around,” the eyebot whirred and an antennae pointed toward Rumlow, who still led them several feet ahead. “Unofficially, I think it was a front for more secret operations. Though something tells me that we will never know for certain.”

Rumlow stopped dead in his tracks and turned toward the eyebot. “Now it definitely sounds like you’re trying to say something.”

“Me thinks the mercenary doth protest too much,” Tony recited.

Rumlow snorted and marched over to the door, whose sign read “Security.” He placed three mines against the steel and backed off. Clint sprinted around the corner, covering his ears as the charges ignited.

Flames sprouted and died out in the damp chambers and all fell silent for a moment. Clint shook the ringing from his ears. Then, behind the adjacent doors, a soft murmur grew into wailing fervor, loud blows vibrating against the other doors, raspy hisses seeking blood. Rumlow, gait unhindered by the ravenous clamor, walked into the security chamber and leaned against a wall, lighting a cigarette.

Barton rushed in and sat down at a monitor. “I hate to say it, but we gotta get these doors open if we want to get anywhere,” he said. The eyebot floated above his shoulder. “Any idea where I should start, Stark?”

"We need to get to the basement. Type something in and see if the command line is working,” Tony said. Clint obliged and soon Tony was backseat driving, telling him the proper commands. It was like running in circles, even Tony acknowledged how scrambled and messed up the systems were. Eventually, after some struggle and cursing, Clint unlocked the lower chamber doors. “The vertibird should be in the basement, judging by how far the building has sunk. We just—uh oh.”

No sooner did Tony say that then the adjacent doors sparked to life, sliding along rusted tracks, releasing the dark dwellers within. Rumlow flicked his cigarette into the dark. Its ember illuminated corroded flesh drawn taut over bones, clothes all but dissolving from their frames. Gutteral hisses filled the room. Rumlow jumped back. He drew his gun and fired rapidly, spraying coagulated blood across the metal walls.

The eyebot whirred around, ascending to the ceiling. Clint shoved his chair back, kicking up a lead pipe and catching it deftly in both hands. He swung with all his might. The jagged end smashed into a skull, sending the body flying toward the opposite wall. Another hiss was on his left. A bolt of energy from the eyebot terminated it in mid swing. Clint nodded toward it and kicked another ghoul in the chest full strength. The ghoul collided with another, the brunt stunning both of them. Two bullets smeared their brains and the room was still once more.

“We have to find Natasha and Steve!” Clint shouted, “There could be a hundred more ghouls for all we know.” Clint led the charge, pipe held out like a spear, his pip-boy shining on dozens of white, angry eyes.

 

\+ + +

 

Steve forced himself to stand his ground. One step back, one unbelieving gasp could have jeopardized the whole operation, but still it took all his willpower not to recoil in fear. The man was a walking corpse, plain and simple. Two dark, beady eyes looked up at Steve from sunken hollows, which were surrounded by expanses of gray, peeling flesh. Frank was bald, might have been since before the war—Steve still couldn’t attach a name to his face. But his smile was earnest, if crooked and disarming coming from the surrounding decay.

“I’m sorry, Cap. I thought it would’ve been obvious from the way I talk,” Frank rubbed the back of his neck as he crossed over to the computers, “I guess you’ve never seen a ghoul before, huh?”

Steve shook his head. He could not decide which was the kinder fate: the opportunity to persist through the deadliest war known to man, a chance to teach and live and cultivate, or to die among the ashen clouds, avoiding entirely the endless conflict humanity tirelessly creates. He made eye contact with Natasha. She merely shrugged, but her face was filled with pity.

Steve found his resolve. He walked over to Frank and slipped off his glove. Frank looked on with curiosity as the hand was held out to him. “I apologize for not introducing myself properly,” Steve said. “I’m Steve Rogers. You probably know me better as Captain America.”

Frank grinned and took his hand. The flesh was sinewy, but surprisingly dry in spite of his decaying appearance and the water rushing in from Lake Liberty. “I’m Frank Addison. Nice to see a friendly face. You probably wish you could say the same.”

Steve chuckled, “Nonsense, Frank. I won’t forget your name this time.” Natasha cleared her throat. “Right. Frank, we need your help with another issue.”

Frank crossed his arms, suddenly cagey and wary. “Oh? And what would this other ‘issue’ be?”

“We need to know what this facility was used for.”

Frank threw up his arms. “Oh, not this again.”

Steve stayed him with an open palm. “Now just wait a second, Frank. We are not like the others who were here before. If we can get access to those computers, find out what they were after then we can put a stop to whatever their plans were. Getting access will help us find out who’s been tampering with these systems. And we can find the men who hurt your friends.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “If you can promise me that, then I guess I have no reason to say no. It might be a bit difficult, though."

Natasha approached the computers. “Don’t worry, we have a guy on it. A real smart ass.”

Frank sat down and got to typing, his eyes following the code at a mile a minute. “Before the war, I was a software engineer here. Top secret stuff, but hey, I guess the U.S. government ain’t around to fire my ass anymore.”

“You got that right,” Steve muttered.

The computers hummed and beeped in their green glow. “We’ll have to move to another terminal down by the water. They really rattled something when they plugged in all those holodiscs. I got everything running just neat and tidy after the bombs shook everything up, but now it’s a big freakin’ mess. Turning on the lights shuts the ventilation off, opening one hatch means locking another. Hell, I’ve been locked in by the freakin’ microwave on a couple of occasions.”

He looked at Natasha. “If you tried this yourself, you could’ve locked yourself in here for the rest of your life—by the way, you might wanna pop another Rad-X soon if you wanna stay a smoothskin.”

Natasha obliged and she handed Steve two. “Though it would be nice to have some new company,” Frank murmured. After a few more lines of text, a heavy door swung open nearby, letting sour water rush through the opening. “The other computers and the bird are over here.” He stood up and grabbed a flashlight, beckoning for them to follow. Natasha’s Geiger counter slowly gathered intensity, signaling another dose of Rad-X. They’d have to go in for Rad-Away treatment when they got home, but Steve pushed that worry out of his mind for now.

Steve thought to radio Clint, but his radio returned nothing. The walls must be dense here. With hope, they’d wander near enough for him to push a signal through. He also didn’t want to burden Frank with more unnecessary company—Rumlow especially.

He wondered what kind of poor existence Frank must have suffered—dark, isolation, the mounting horror of flesh dropping away and death not following after. That must have been centuries ago. And, at the very least, he had friends to share his time with. “Have you really been here since the war?”

“Not the whole time, no. I only returned here a little over a decade ago. I did some traveling. Finally saw the Grand Canyon." Frank paused. "Well, _Grand Canyons_. Bombs are funny that way.”

The water rose slowly to their knees. Suddenly each step was a struggle, but still Frank led on. “And you’re really two-hundred years old?”

“Two-hundred years _young_ , yeah.” The Geiger counter was slowly fading in intensity. “Something changes when you become a ghoul. You don’t get hungry really, or thirsty. And radiation leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling instead horrific pain.”

Steve thought of asking him about Bucky. The mystery of Frank’s survival having been answered, his mind was again awash in selfish hope. But he refrained, keeping his eye on the task at hand, unwilling to burden another who has lost so much—perhaps even more—than he.

They arrived at a wide, murky oasis. Natasha’s Geiger counter was at last quiet. The lake stretched out beyond the massive hole. The rising moon glittered on the water. “I don’t know what it is, but for some reason, the current from the lake brought all the radiation into the building. The lake itself pretty clean, all things considered.”

Natasha stepped in next to Frank. “So you worked here before the war.”

“Me and my friends, yeah. It was a pretty sweet gig, once you got past the fact that you were making something whose sole purpose was killing people. When the bombs started dropping, our crew took shelter here. The building's walls were lined with lead—the other departments here were working with some pretty volatile stuff. The radiation seeped into the building after the vertibird crashed through the wall, but it wasn’t enough to kill us all.”

For the lack of flesh covering his face, Frank was still capable of emoting; pensiveness crossed his face, then fear, then anger. “Some of us got worse. And when you get worse as a ghoul, that’s when people start getting afraid. Trigger happy.”

“I'm sorry, Frank."

Frank wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Ain't your fault, Captain." 

"Where are the servers? I can get to work immediately once we find them,” Natasha said. "Then we can find the men responsible."

Frank pointed over to a door nearer the water. Natasha approached it and it grinded open half way, forcing her to duck beneath the door. Another mass of screens rose up to meet her and she found the ports. In one deft movement, she activated the servers, sending a thrumming through the moist, cool air. Stark’s drive was in and the tip glowed.

Steve assessed the water. He’d have to get Stark over here before any work could be done. His radio suddenly buzzed to life. They must have been close by. Clint was on the other line. Loud crashing and raspy growls sounded through the speakers. 

“We have a situation, over.” Blinding floodlights flashed on in the cavern. Frank swore.

“Barton, get Stark here as fast as you can, over.”

“Copy. I have a visual of you near the lake. Wait is that a ghoul? Get away from him!”

Steve swung around. On the far side of the vast warehouse, a door flew open. Barton and the eyebot flew down the stairs and into the water. Gunfire rang out in the hollow. Frank sprinted toward the sound, stumbling in the water. 

“No, no, no!” 

Light flashed in the hall as the bullets flew, silencing the screeches and howls one by one. Steve followed him, swiftly bounding over rock and brick.

Natasha swung around and readied her pistol. She looked back at the monitor. She couldn’t leave it unattended now.

Clint met with Frank first, gun raised. Frank swerved left and ducked past and soon his boots were rattling the metal staircase. Steve took the stairs three at a time after him. Frank stood at the opening of the hall, shaking with rage, a roar rising in his throat. Bodies were scattered left and right, and the walls were painted red. In the middle of the carnage, Rumlow stood, barrel trained on Frank’s head.

“You murderer!" Frank took a step forward. “What have you done!?"

Rumlow smirked. “So, you’re the talker? Interesting.”

“Drop the gun, Rumlow. He’s done nothing wrong,” Steve yelled. “He means to help us.”

“What good would a ghoul accomplish? He’s an abomination, Rogers.” He tipped his gun. “I mean, look at him.”

Frank took another step forward. Rumlow’s face was flat, professional, as if he believed everything he said. Still, he let Frank approach, his steps trembling. 

“He’s a survivor, Rumlow. Like you. Like me. Put the gun down and we can talk this through.”

Frank’s eyes were on him, gaze burning. “Talk? TALK!?” Frank faced Steve, mind so lost in rage that he forgot about the barrel at his back. “You made a promise, Rogers. What kind of Captain can’t keep his own men in line?” Steve’s stomach lurched. “I trusted you, goddammit. Freakin’ smoothskins—always shooting first and asking questions later.”

Rumlow cocked his magnum, Frank entirely unaware. In an instant, Steve hurled his shield toward the ceiling. It bounced off a pipe, angling above Frank’s head. With a metallic crash, it caught Rumlow in the shoulder and he reeled back into a nearby pipe. The gun ignited, sending bullet through Frank’s chest. Steve leapt forward and pinned Rumlow down, kicking his gun across the hall.

“This is not how we’re going to do this, Rumlow, do you understand?” Rumlow swung a meaty fist, catching Steve’s jaw. Steve whipped around and returned the blow, sending blood streaming down Rumlow’s nose. “We are not here to gun everyone down like a bunch of lunatics, Rumlow.” Steve lifted him to his feet and shoved him against a wall.

Frank was on his feet as well, bleeding from his shoulder. He coughed up blood. “Y’know, it’s people like you two that fuckin’ made this mess,” his voice rattled. He covered the bullet hole with his palm and retreated back into the hall, stepping over the bodies of his friends.

Steve released his grip and Rumlow stormed off toward the water, thankfully in the opposite direction. “Frank, wait!” Steve called.

Frank wavered as he turned to meet his gaze. His eyes were small and defeated, each moment of weariness showing through all at once. “Don’t you fuckin’ follow me, Rogers. Just leave me be.” Steve stood in silence and shame, watching the last glimpse of the 21st century disappear into the dark.

He waited there for several minutes, waiting for Frank’s return, waiting for a chance to apologize, but he did not receive it. Eventually, Tony’s eyebot floated toward him and when Steve turned to address him, he could almost make pity out on the little robot’s camera lens.

“A friend of yours?” Tony said into the microphone.

Steve shook his head and pushed past the eyebot. His feet were heavy on the stairs. Natasha and Clint met him near the edge of the water, both at a loss for words.

“Someone give me another light,” Steve said. Quickly, Clint removed his pipboy and handed it to Steve, who attached it snugly to his forearm. Tony glided over, starting with the instructions—what the part looked like, how heavy it was likely to be, what screwdrivers to use—and Steve shucked off his shirt and plunged into the icy water.

He swam toward the bottom of the water. Brick and mortar and steel jutted out from every direction. The lights pierced the clear water. Then the aircraft’s shape emerged in the depths. It was huge, bigger than any vertibird Steve had ever laid eyes on, like a lingering beast in the depths. It was too monstrous for words and for a moment, Steve thought it he and it should remain beneath the soft waves, asleep.

 

\+ + +

 

Rumlow didn’t stick around for long. Steve didn’t care for him to. The fire crackled meekly in front of them. Steve shivered. His fatigues lay near the fire, draped over rock, soaking wet. They chewed their food silently, eyes locked onto the flame. Occasionally, a metallic crash could be made out from the nearby factory. Echoes of anguish.

Tony’s eyebot had long since floated away back to Sanctuary. “We can talk later…if you want to, that is.” The component Steve emerged with leaned slick and black against a nearby stump. It was a cold, heavy monolith, almost alien in appearanc. Tony had said it was a navigations computer, a powerful prototype. Sam was coming with a caravan to retrieve it and they were to guard it until Tony delivered word.

Clint met Steve’s eyes and frowned. He set aside his can of beans and slid closer to Steve. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Steve looked back at the fire, silent and cold.

“I should have told you. About ghouls,” Clint said. “It was stupid of me to forget about them.”

Steve merely hummed back, eyes glazing over. Those bodies had once been human. They had once looked at the same sky he had, had eaten the same food, had breathed the same air. They were once beholden to them, but now they lay in the dark, mourned by the last man to know their names.

“It’s just that we haven’t seen any in a long while. I haven’t encountered one since my days with the slavers—they’re not so common around here." Clint scratched his head and sighed. "That isn’t supposed to be an excuse or anything. It was my job to tell you about the wasteland, everything you might run into. I’m sorry, Steve.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his knees, rocking softly back and forth.

“You couldn’t have known about Frank…or his friends. You were defending yourself.”

“What about Rumlow?” Natasha asked softly.

Steve scowled. “He’s a killer. He was going to shoot Frank—even after I told him that Frank was going to help us. He can't talk to anyone without a gun in hand. I don’t want him or his kind anywhere near Project Insight,” Steve said. He stood up and stretched. He felt the hem of his shirt on the rock. Still wet. “If Pierce wants my support with this operation, then he is just going to have to trust us.” Steve’s jaw was set and he looked toward the monolithic navigation systems. Something about it made his skin prickle and his blood run cold.

 

\+ + +

 

An ocean of expectant eyes awaited them in Sanctuary. Solemnly, Steve cast an arm to the brahmin, on whose back the system was strapped. Some approached to examine it more closely, but Sam kept the townspeople at bay, saying that he didn’t want a spooked brahmin trampling the hard-won goods. As the townspeople began to move toward the bar, happy that the first leg of the restoration was underway, Steve trawled over to his lonesome shack and unlocked his door, ready to collapse.

No sooner did he step into the low light, than a gun was trained on his chest. Steve readied his shield. The gun was quickly withdrawn and a pleasant hello floated to him from across the room. A blonde woman was seated at his table, legs propped on an adjacent stool. Her armor was unfamiliar, black with a faint red sheen. In spite of the dirt on her boots, her curly hair was tidy and fastidiously styled and hung low over her attentive, darting eyes. She could have been in film. She swung her long legs and rose to greet him.

“Mr. Rogers, a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said.

Steve was still guarded and he didn’t take her hand. “Who are you? What are you doing in my home?” he barked.

She didn’t hold his lack of politeness against him. “It looks bad, doesn’t it? Don’t worry I have no intention of harming you. In fact, I’ve been ordered here to ensure your safety,” she said with a small smile. “My name is Sharon. Sharon Carter.”

Steve didn’t move away from the doorway, still not convinced that he was completely safe. “Who ordered you here?”

She held up a set of keys, as if they alone corroborated her story. “Fury and Pierce thought it would be a good idea to protect—“

“Their investment, yeah I got that,” Steve hissed. His rucksack fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

"Not the word I would have chosen, but I wouldn’t say it doesn’t fit.” She said. Hands clasped behind her back, she strolled about, inspecting the books and trophies: manuals on camping, gun maintenance and even a couple about computer software; a group of deathclaw hands nailed in a neat row to a dark, wooden plank, and a giant radscorpion stinger. “Well, regardless of what you believe my intentions are, I will say that this responsibility is an honor. It definitely beats guard duty at Hillside.”

“Hillside?”

"Yes. A squadron of Hillside guards have been sent to each of SHIELD’s settlements. Pierce wants everyone to be on guard. No telling what can happen.” She walked over to the dirty glass window. “Just take a look.”

Steve joined her at the window and looked where her finger pointed. A duo of guards in similar armor were patrolling along the wall and a third one stood watch near the bar, where the clamor was reaching its peak.

“Sounds like they want to see you,” she said, tucking a blonde strand behind an ear.

He sank onto his bed frame, longing for the familiar creak beneath him. “I just need a minute.” She looked to him. “Alone, please.”

She nodded and marched out of the house, closing the door softly behind her. He gazed at his reflection. A shave wouldn’t hurt. He looked to a comic nearby, marveling at his illustrated persona, how the coif of his hair remained vigilantly in place and how his jaw, clean and square, was ever free from the passage of time. Never so much as a five o’clock shadow manifested on his chin. He doused his face with water and picked up a razor. He felt a stimpack in his pocket—the one the little girl gifted him. “For them,” he told himself.

Minutes later, he braced himself and entered the tavern. Sharon was right. They were waiting for him. Congratulations streamed from all sides, closing in on him.

Soon Steve was mired in the crowd, everyone demanding a story, one of heroism and close calls and dramatic climax, though Steve avoided the tales as effectively as he could. He never liked the spotlight, but at least he wasn’t on stage or on a float, being tirelessly paraded about like a mascot. Never did he speak with no pre-amble, no inkling of his reputation or misinformed perceptions of his morality. He thought all of that could have been left behind. He smiled a big, strained smile. What remained on paper were mere drawings. Few knew the real Steve Rogers, even in Sanctuary.

Clint and Natasha looked on, all but invisible in the crowd, though they did not envy Steve. He was modest in his quick nods and soft smiles. Lines formed to shake his hand, inspired by his presence alone. Natasha downed a shot of vodka. He was a symbol, a shining beacon in the darkening wasteland twilight, with his shield in tow, touting the colors of a lost age. But she saw the distress in his eyes, even if the others were too drunk to notice.

Clint saw his stilted motions; it was almost as if he were running through a script, for everyone’s pleasure except his own. He shook his head when Natasha met his eye. “Do you think he was like this before the war?"

She shrugged. “It’s hard to say. That was before he failed.”

“Natasha!”

She swung around in her stool and got another shot. “His words, not mine.” She expertly downed it. “He still blames himself. He's putting on an act for their sake and comfort. Before the war, he did it for the sake of morale." She ordered another drink. "I can't help but wonder if he still believes in it all. Or if he ever did in the first place.”

“He looks miserable."

“He never got a moment to breathe," Natasha said wistfully. Clint’s shoulders drooped and he ordered another beer.

Heavy boots thudded in the corner of the bar. Steve scanned the room and found an unwelcome sight. He scowled. “Why don’t you tell them about Frank, Rogers. Tell them about the ghouls,” a rough voice called out.

Natasha scanned the faces and spotted Rumlow. “Shit.”

Rumlow emerged from the darkened corner. His eye was still swollen and black, sickly blues rimming the purple umbers. He raised his glass high in the air, leaning too much of his weight on his left leg and stumbling. “Go on! Tell them how you blew away all them ghouls!” He drank deeply. “Isn’t that what you all wanna hear?” The crowd roared in agreement and turned on Steve.

He was still, seething in his chair. One by one, the people saw the grit in his sneer and they grew silent and taut. He stood up and approached Rumlow. “Don’t you dare.”

“You’re not going to tell them? Fine, I will.” He took another swig and planted it on a countertop. “Steve made friends with a lonely ghoul at the factory. Fred, I think.” Shaking his head, he marched right up to Steve and looked up at him with stale, bloodshot eyes. He planted a finger in his chest and began jabbing. “But he didn’t have the nerve to put down the rest of the ghouls, even though they were faceless, ravenous beasts." 

“Even when all the feral ghouls were crowding around, Captain America here was calling out. ‘Hold your fire, hold your fire!’” Rumlow spat on the linoleum. “Doesn’t sound like the Captain America I grew up with. He would have put them down, would have realized that they were a threat and needed to be eliminated.”

Every eye in the room was trained on him, some pitying and others confused. “What do you have to say, Rogers? This isn’t what I imagined when Pierce ordered me to work with you.” He raised his arms and circled around. “Is this the kind of man we want leading this expedition? One who can’t make the hard decisions?”

They had grown quiet. Rumlow pointed to his black eye. “He was defending them, the mindless ghouls. Assaulted me for doing what any of you would have done.” He was in Steve’s face again. Something inside Steve snapped, flooding his body with tension.

In an instant, Steve has him by the collar. “You had him in your sights, Rumlow. You could have taken the shot at anytime. And why not? I’ll tell you.  Because you knew that he was a person—a living, feeling man. Even your warped conscious didn’t want to fire.”

Rumlow egged him on, but Steve loosened his grip, sending Rumlow to the ground. “You’re not worth the effort. He turned on the crowd, “Think long and hard about what this project is going to mean for all of you. What is it going to mean if people like him are in the pilot’s seat?” He pointed a finger to Rumlow. "People like him only see targets, kill what they don't understand."

“That ghoul had a life. His name is Frank. He had friends, family, a home and everything was taken away from him in an instant. And yet he persisted. And just because Frank had been a ghoul, Rumlow saw it fit to deprive you all of everything he had to offer—centuries of experience, history and stories.”

Steve laughed bitterly. “He didn’t want to confront them, to learn if they meant harm. He’s the one that couldn’t make the hard decision. But if that’s what all of you want, to indiscriminately wipe out every outsider on the horizon—to do what came so easily to the leaders of the pre-war world—then count me out.” Steve pushed his way to the silent crowd.

As he burst through the door, he came face to face with Phil. “What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Two guards from Hillside pushed in close, feeling the tension leaking from the tavern. Phil looked over Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Steve didn’t look back. His fists were trembling. He heard the scrapes of gravel at his back and knew they watched him leave. He hoped that his message stung—as revelations so frequently did. Even so, he knew that the Project would see completion, with or without him. When they reached Phil’s door. He looked up at the stars, imagining the massive aircraft ever darkening the sky. He knew he would have to return to the project, to help guide it toward good instead of harsh pragmatism. He sighed. Even the thought seemed naïve, but he did not know what else to do.

The din slowly rose again at the bar, though Steve couldn’t decipher its tone. Rumlow eventually stumbled through its doors, regaining his balance against a nearby post. He swayed and nodded to the Hillside guards. Steve followed his silhouette. He wondered if he had left the tavern in triumph or shame. He prayed for the latter.

 

 

 


	8. The Man in the Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. Here's another long one.

Light bulbs buzzed overhead. Phil sat with his hands clenched, mouth screwed into a frown. Steve sat across from him, weary but unable to sleep, drained from recounting the story. It was late at night. Exhaustion had settled into his bones like a tide and he sagged beneath its pressure.

“I couldn’t save them,” Steve said. He was still. “I promised Frank...”

“Steve,” Phil sighed. “Don’t—”

“Frank said I was a failure. He was right,” Steve snapped. “He said, ‘What kind of captain can’t control his own men?’ No leader in my book.”

“I pity Frank, I really do, but feral ghouls can’t be helped, Steve. They’re too far gone. You can’t burden yourself with their deaths. It was a matter of survival.”

“There might have been some I could have saved, Frank might not have been the only one still in his senses. And we’ll never know.” Steve fisted the fabric of his fatigues. “Rumlow gunned them down because I couldn’t stop him, because I wasn’t fast enough. Because I was too damn focused on digging up the past.” He shifted in his chair, pulling his arms close to his stomach, unable to calm the turbulence within. “I’m such a fraud,” Steve muttered.

“Why would you say such a thing?” Phil asked, his brow furrowing in frustration and pity.

Steve’s skin boiled, sweat poured down his neck at the mere memory of that day centuries past. “It wasn’t the first time things went sour under my watch.” Steve took a deep breath. Phil had to know. Maybe he would understand. Steve's breath hitched; he suddenly realized that he was the sole keeper of this burden, this failure. Bucky was there no longer to comfort him. The comics and holotapes had erased his flaws, leaving behind only a lie. Steve's vocal cords tightened but he pressed on.

He had been called in to New York, roughly five months before the bombs dropped.

Their neighbors above were no longer sovereign; the United States had annexed Canada, saying that a united front could better wage war with the Chinese. Steve knew better. He knew that the U.S. just wanted to wring them out, get every last bit of oil, consume it all until nothing remained. He guessed that the U.S. got what it wanted.

Steve marched down the streets, crushing trash, refuse and brick underfoot. The anti-war protests in New York had reached a violent peak. Flames sprouted and bellowed out of shop windows, cars were stripped bare and overturned, and broken glass covered the sidewalks. Streaks of blood dried to a sickly brown in the hot sun. He led a squad of armored troops to the riot, one in which not three years ago he would have proudly participated, throat hoarse, skin flushed with indignation, fist raised in the air.

Fate had put him on the other side. He prayed that he could at least guide the hand of authority in this one small instance, that he could extend his power over the stream of violence and curb its flow. He walked with a confident gait that his heart was barely able to sustain. The faceless authority behind him hid behind their power armor, silent and foreboding. Steve still couldn’t come to terms with the mounting chaos and panic. The world was spiraling out of control, everything out of his reach. Each new mission was stale and useless. None seemed to have any effect on the larger picture. He was merely weathering the tide.

He gave the squad behind him crystal clear orders, ones impossible to misinterpret. Every route to a peaceful resolution was to be taken first. Violence was a last resort. “Use your shield, not your gun,” you shouted to the squad. “If their hands are raised, they will come peacefully and you are to peacefully address them.”

Their faces were obscured, breaths hissing and eyes glowing beneath their masks. Steve hoped the power armor would be enough to sway the crowd, enough for them to put down their improvised weaponry, hold their hands up high and save the fight for another day, one where Steve could lend his hand instead of his mere image.

In the light of recent dealings—the nuclear arms race, the riots breaking out across the globe—Steve had to narrow his scope, focus on the small, tangible good he could realistically accomplish. His appeals to Congress had been brushed aside, the U.N. was slowly collapsing under the weight of greed and paranoia, and he was ordered to neutralize a group of protesters, whose righteous rage had struck a resonate chord in his heart.

His fist shook behind the shield and he marched forth toward the strife and chanting. Smoke billowed into the blue sky. Cars were crushed and broken. The throngs of protesters ran on and on and inside of Steve swelled a naïve cloud of pride.

Their signs were painted red, white and blue. His face was plastered beneath a slogan: “The Last American Heroes.” The protesters were at odds with riot police; batons swung left and right, drawing blood and pained cries. Gas erupted in the middle of the crowd, sending them scattering left and right. Tears streamed down their faces. They angrily returned the artillery, throwing grenades back at the riot police, sending some sputtering away while others retaliated with terrible, renewed vigor.

“Remember your orders!” Steve barked back at his squad. They sped up to a jog and they met another crowd of protestors. The people turned, bruised and broken, blood dripping down out of the corners of their mouths, hair matted down with sweat, eyes lit with the fires of martyrdom. Some covered their mouths in disbelief, others shouted at him, throwing down their banners. All of their eyes were filled with dazed betrayal.

“I understand your cause, but this is not the way!” Steve shouted. “Return to your homes, no one has to get hurt! We can resolve this peacefully! Live to fight another day!”

“BULLSHIT!”

From out in the crowd, a lone brick came spiraling toward his head. He raised his shield and it crumbled against the vibranium. Before he could free himself of the shock, the power-armored men behind him surged forward, gun barrels aflame.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Steve shouted.

Chaos throbbed around him and Steve spiraled back and forth, uselessly calling out for cease-fire, each shout falling deeper into desperation. He caught the barrel of a soldier's rifle and bent it out of shape. He spun around and kicked another in the gut as he was taking aim. He blocked a blow from a rioter and she spat in his face. The power armor whirred in unison like a malevolent hive and they pressed forward into the citizenry. They closed in on all sides, condensing the chaos.

Another protestor fell to the ground near him and Steve threw out a hand and helped him up but he was knocked to the ground by the cloud of flying limbs and panic. Steve heard him cry out as he was trampled underfoot. A teenage girl called out, “DAD! DAD!?” The butt of a rifle cut her off. Steve swung a hook into another shining helmet, sending the police man crumbling to the asphalt.

The sickening crack of a rifle pierced the air, followed by a thick smattering of gunfire. People all around him screamed in horror and anger. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” No one could hear him over the barrage of gunfire and innocent screams. Bodies fell left and right. Steve clenched his teeth and cried out, slamming his shield into every guard and officer he could find in the chaos, but the damage had been done. Blood trickled onto the asphalt.

Everything was quiet. The mechanical whir of power armor sounded around him, surveying the wreckage, herding the last broken souls into vans. The dust began to clear but Steve only looked toward the baleful sun. He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove, smearing blood across his face He could manage no cry of contrition. He only stared at the sky, feeling the ground swerve beneath his feet.

"Mission accomplished," a radio buzzed. Something snapped inside. He gripped his shield and dashed toward the remaining guards, the ones who so willingly fired into throngs of protestors. Everything that followed was a vicious blur. His fist sent armored guards and riot police flying into flaming brick. HIs shield sparked as it collided with metal, sending bodies crumpling to the ground. When he at last returned to his sense, he was surrounded on all sides by trembling panicked soldiers. He looked left and right at the wreckage and damage he had caused and put his hands up.

His commanding officers had demanded to know what happened, how so much power armor could be damaged so easily. They did not care for the useless loss of innocent life. He knew they were trying to draw out his hand in the violence, but he remained silent, eyes cold and hateful. His superiors seemed to collectively shake their heads. Two hearings, a grounding order and a three-hour plane ride to Fort Roxbury was all it took to get rid of him.

Bucky arrived only a day after he did. He dropped his bags and rushed over to Steve. The apartment was still in boxes, but Steve sat in the darkened corner, eyes glazed over and fevered. Bucky collapsed near his feet. “Steve?” His hands gripped Steve’s shoulders. His mouth struggled against a pained frown. “Steve, I ‘m here. I need you to talk ya to talk to me, alright? What the hell happened?” He shook Steve’s shoulders. He wordlessly collapsed into Bucky’s chest.

“Steve? Steve?”

Steve pushed himself up from the table. The buzzing above faded in and out. Steve stared at the cluster of bulbs, avoiding Phil’s gaze. The mere act of remembering had set his synapses on fire. He saw Bucky kneeling on the floor amidst the cardboard boxes and then behind the glass in the cryo lab, but still he could not draw a simple line between the two. He rubbed his eyes.

Phil’s hands were planted on the table. “Steve…I don’t know what to say.” He looked toward his boxes, which were filled to the brim with fairytales: “Captain America vs. Comrade Adam,” “Captain America in the Orient,” “Captain America and the Search for Tomorrow.” Of course, Phil had recovered clips and files about the riots—they were hard to avoid after a certain date—but Phil never expected Rogers to be deployed against the protestors, however unwillingly. In spite of this, a spark of hope ignited in Phil’s gut.

“No one blames you, Rogers,” Phil started. He watched Steve closely. His eyes were still cast to the side. “I’m not naïve man—it's impossible to be so in the wasteland. I know all of these comics are more fiction than truth, and that none of them tell the whole story. Just one look at the language would be enough to dismiss it as propaganda. But truth can be found in them, if you know where to look. Captain America never tolerated injustice. He never resorted to violence first. He knew who his friends were and protected them, even at the risk of his own life. And he always fought for what was right."

“Captain America is not just a soldier, but also a kind person.” Phil smile dissolved into a frown. “I know you still mourn and I know you hurt,” Phil folded his arms and leaned across the table. “You still blame yourself for the Great War. Every day. But, despite what you may think of yourself, I’m still proud to call you my friend, Steve. Proud.”

Steve sat up. He looked at Phil, whose face was cool with belief and resolve, his jaw clenched in a hard, determined line and his eyes unblinking. “You took every opportunity to make the world a better place, Steve. You accepted the serum even knowing that it could kill you. You went across seas to root out illegal arms, to stop them from falling into the wrong hands. You went in on your own and saved James Buchanan Barnes when his squad captured in Alaska—against your orders and sense of self-preservation. All because he meant something to you.”

Steve uncrossed his arms. He recalled sprinting over crunchy, Alaskan winter, bounding over the gate, mind fixed on finding the survivors. He remembered Bucky strapped helplessly to a table in an isolated cell, bloodied and bruised. Steve could almost see his eyes light up in disbelief. “Steve? Is that you?”

Phil stood up and grabbed a comic book.“A lot of people would have given up, Rogers. Waking up to this nightmare would have left most completely destroyed, unwilling to go on. You agreed to help complete strangers. And after all you’ve endured—the Resource Wars, the riots, the bombs—that means something, goddammit. So pick yourself up, soldier. We both know you can. Captain America doesn’t take any shit.”

Steve smiled weakly, feeling the barest ounce of strength return to him.

He stayed for a while longer until Clint returned. He said that he looked a lot better and Steve said it was thanks to Phil. Steve took his leave, not wanting to impinge on their time together. He walked down the hill to his house down by the gates. The tavern was dark and silent and bottles were strewn about. Inside his home, Steve crept slowly past Sharon in the living room and into his cot. Beside his nightstand was an issue of Captain America. A small note, written in an unfamiliar hand, graced its cover.

“Sign me. –Sharon”

 

\+ + +

 

 

Steve was asleep with the comic in his hands when knocking flared up at his door. He blinked awake and pulled on a ratty t-Shirt. Sharon was behind the door, her posture rigid and distinctly militant. She handed him a stack of papers—what looked like a long, detailed survey.

“Good morning, Rogers,” she said.

Steve walked through to the kitchen and flipped through the pages. Hundreds of questions sprawled out. In large, nondescript letters near the top of the front page was printed “S.H.I.E.L.D. CENSUS.” He wiped more sleep from his eyes. “What is this?”

“These are coming all the way from the top,” she replied. “Beginning today, each SHIELD resident over the age of fifteen will be required to complete the census survey.”

Steve passed her and sat at his kitchen table. The first pages were to be filled basic demographic information, everything from the names parents’ names (“If known”) to the color of your eyes and hair. He dug deeper as Sharon circled the table, eyes getting a read on Steve. Two hundred statements followed, all of which were to be answered along a scale from “Strongly Agree” to “Strongly Disagree.”

“'I believe laws should never be questioned.’ ‘I believe that authority is non-transferable.’ ‘Even if I am hurt by the authority’s action, I know it is for the best.’” Steve furrowed his brow. “Some of these sound familiar. Why is that?”

“Some of these questions come from pre-war censuses given out by Vault-Tec,” she said. "At least, that is what my superiors tell me."

“What are they going to do with these?” Steve asked, eyes skimming the questions.

Sharon shrugged slightly, “Our squads were told to begin distributing and collecting completed paperwork. Pierce was especially adamant that these be completed in time for the vertibird’s debut. From what I know, a complete census been a long time in the making, but that is all the information I can offer, unfortunately.” She took it into her hands and examined it herself. “Fury also sent word that he wanted to speak with you.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour or so. I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked like you needed the rest.”

“I appreciate that.” Steve grabbed a packet of nuts from the kitchen. He retreated to the bedroom and undressed, pulling on the cleaner clothes from his worn dresser and grabbing Sharon’s comic. “‘A hero’s work is never done,’” he recited. He approached Sharon placed the comic in her hands. “Isn’t that what I used to say?” His signature was scattered in the corner in black ink.

Breaking out in a smile, Sharon stowed the comic in her attaché case. “Yes, it is. You said it first in part five of the 'Red Conspiracy.' Thank you. This means a lot to me. I remember my dad reading these to me when I went to bed. You know,” her cheeks began to burn, “you’re the reason I joined Hillside’s guard.”

“That’s…that’s good to hear,” Steve managed. “Thank you.”

“But I should let you get on with your day,” she said. “You must have a long day ahead of you.”

Steve smiled and took his leave. The sky was blue and hazy. People averted their eyes at first. He made his way up the hill, again feeling like a stranger. The town was changing. More guards from Hillside have made their way out here in the night. Three stood in Clint’s roost above the gates. He spotted seven more scattered throughout town. They gathered near peoples’ homes, knocking and handing out the thick census, faces blank and anonymous underneath their helmets.

Steve received careful glances from some. A few of the faces he recognized from the bar last night. Word spread quickly here. More people at the diner clutched the surveys, some eyes glazed over and others perplexed. A few hands shot up to wave as he passed and Steve returned them, glad that he had not been completely cast aside.

His eyes caught a stack of crates near the far wall. When he approached the guards nodded and showed him their haul. Boxes were stacked to the brim with medicine, rations and water. On their sides was painted a familiar shape, the emblem from his shield.

A guard to his left cleared her throat. She removed the helmet’s face guard. Maria Hill smiled softly at him.

“Hello, Maria. It’s been awhile.”

“It has. Business has been good, though, if you were curious. Ever since you jumped onto the project, people have been adding to the stores.” She nodded toward the crates.

“These were all donated?” Steve crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He was amazed at the power his emblem held, how truly widespread his image still remained, even after two centuries of decay. She spoke to the other guard and he agreed to take a post elsewhere.

“That's right. The road’s been a bit rougher lately. Caravans are getting more and more cautious. Raiders know something has us spooked. Decided to sign up with the Hillside militia for a bit and feel it out. So far we’ve been moving supplies between S.H.I.E.L.D. settlements. Drive-In is a bit in the dregs right now—we have more units stationed there, but raiders and other desert-miscreants have gotten braver since the assassinations began.” Her eyes darkened. “Medicine is always in demand.”

“It's good that you're so organized. Where are the guards staying in Sanctuary?”

“The common houses here were okay for last night, but more men from Hillside arrived this morning. They’re going to have to round up some more volunteers to offer housing for them until this all blows over. Sam already has. You should talk to him when you get the chance.”

“I see,” Steve said. He looked over to Sam’s home in the far corner. The pens were oddly quiet and empty. “I will. It was good to see you Maria.”

“Same,” she said, re-installing the protective mask over her face.

He would return to Sam later, but Fury was still on his mind. When he knocked, Fury showed him inside to his office and closed the door after him. Even in the bright sunlight, the chamber was dark and Steve would bet anything that it was a tactic of intimidation. “Things get complicated real quick, don’t they?” Fury said. As usual, smoke floated and veiled his face.

Steve cleared his throat. “I take it word has gotten around about Rumlow and me?”

“Your little scene at the tavern? Yes.”

“ I meant what I said,” Steve shot back. “Rumlow’s a reckless killer. If Pierce is keeping more like him in his flock, then I cannot, in good conscience, assist you anymore.”

Fury’s presence filled the room. His hands were clasped in front of him on his desk, tight enough to squeeze a diamond out of coal. “Rumlow isn’t going to be piloting the aircraft, Rogers.”

“That wasn’t my point,” Steve said. “None of this can be taken lightly. That amount of firepower is a big responsibility, Fury.”

“Do not treat us like children, Rogers. We all know what we're signing up for. Security is our ultimate goal.”

“Those sound like Pierce’s words, not yours,” Steve said. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “In my experience, humanity has a problem with that much security. Shoot a man with a gun and you see a person die, bomb a city and all you hear about are numbers. The scope of weaponry changes people, Fury.”

Fury sighed deeply and leaned back. “And what do you suggest as an alternative? Look around you, people are still dropping like flies left and right, and we have zero leads on the assassin behind it all. People are scared, Rogers. We have a responsibility to them. You’ve seen what fear and panic reduce people to. It ain’t pretty.”

Something squirmed in his gut, but Rogers held on to his resolve. “And you think waving around a big gun will calm people down? This isn’t the way, Fury. And until you grant me details concerning the usage of this firepower, then I cannot endorse it any longer. Pierce owes us transparency,” Steve pulled out an extra hard drive from his pocket, “and it looks like you and I think alike.”

“Put that away. Now.” Steve pocketed the device. Fury was silent for a while. He snuffed out a cigarette. “Talk like that tends to make people disappear around here.”

“What do you mean?”

Fury took a deep breath, as if unveiling secrets hidden for years. “There was another on the security council, before you woke up. She had secrets of her own—experiments, genetic modification, the works. Pierce and I decided that we could not work with someone so secretive. So he gave her the boot.”

“Where is she now?”

“No one knows. He didn’t demand blood, only exile. She could be out of state or she could be wandering around as a feral ghoul. She could be somewhere, hiding or getting shot as we speak.”

A quick rap sounded on the wooden door. Fury leaned in close. “Not another word on this until Stark is finished analyzing, got that? If his suspicions are correct, then we'll need Pierce's full trust and cooperation. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.”

After another set of raps, the door swung open and there stood Natasha. Behind her, further into the foyer, was an unfamiliar man. He wore thick-rimmed glasses on his shaved head. He was neither tall nor short and wore an expression of bland friendliness. In his hands was another census.

Steve glanced Natasha’s pocket, finding the familiar bulge of Stark’s hard drive poking through. Steve stiffened. Fury gave him a long stare, drumming his fingers on the table. He glanced at the man behind Natasha. Steve saw the slightest quiver of tension run through Fury’s fingers, but it was gone in an instant.

“I hate to interrupt, but you have a visitor from Hillside, Fury. A Jasper Sitwell,” Natasha said. “He said you were going to discuss Sanctuary’s census reports.”

Fury nodded and motioned for Steve to stand. He turned to leave but Fury spoke up. “I hate to cut this conversation short, Rogers, but I will end on this: you can’t help shape Project Insight from the sidelines. Only Pierce can grant you that privilege.”

Steve’s eyes darted from Natasha to Fury. He balled his hands up and nodded. The words stuck with him as he descended. The draw of responsibility was too powerful. The serum had given him the chance to re-render the looming political reality of his time and he had failed. He scanned the Hillside guards. It was happening all over again. He didn’t find one townsperson unburdened by the census and many still had their heads buried in its pages and in their thoughts.

He grit his teeth. Deep inside he knew that Project Insight would move forward with or without his input. In his mind’s paranoid trenches, the shape the Project would take behind closed doors was a reality too tremendous to ignore. He couldn’t step away.

 

\+ + +

 

Sam was finishing with the last strap on Dorothy’s back. The morning sun was reaching its apex, casting Sanctuary in harsh shadow. They would reach Interstate by evening, Sam estimated.

Dorothy called low and hoarsely as the sharp corners giant navigations system sank into her back. Sam rubbed her sides. “I know, baby, I know. This thing’s heavier than it looks.” He turned to Steve and Clint after the lulling subsided. “We’re gonna have to take a bit of a detour on our way up to Interstate. I have a few other things I wanted to move into the ranch house.”

“I still can’t believe you’re not gonna be around,” Clint said. “You didn’t have to volunteer your house, y’know.”

Sam’s smile was deep and sad. “I know. But if I didn’t volunteer my place, the Hillsiders would have taken someone else’s.”

Steve rubbed Dorothy’s right head. “At least they let you move your things,” Steve said.

“You got that right.” He secured the bags on another brahmin’s side. “They might get to sleep in my house, but they aren’t getting my Fancy Lad Cakes, I can tell you that much.” Sam’s smile widened and Clint broke out in a guffaw and gripped his shoulder. “That Sitwell better not make a mess.”

Fury could be seen standing on his porch, tall and lean in his trench coat. Beside him stood Sitwell, his mouth moving in animated speech. Natasha and Phil joined them. “Okay everything seems to be prepared,” Natasha said. “Ready for round two?”

Steve and Clint nodded. Phil crossed over to Steve and gave his hand a firm shake. “Remember what we discussed, Rogers.” His other arm hooked around his back and gave him a firm pat. “You can do this.”

Then Phil’s hand led Clint a few feet away. “You know the drill, Clint: be on guard, be cool.” Phil straightened the collar of Clint’s leather jacket with both hands, fingers lingering on his chest. “And be safe.” He moved in close and pressed his lips onto Clint’s.

“That’s not very romantic, sir,” Clint said. “Where did Phil from last night go?”

“He’ll be here when you get back,” Phil chuckled. He turned to the rest of the crew. “Alright, I won’t detain you any longer. Once you get to Interstate, Tony will lead Dorothy to the drop-off point. You are all to check in with Alexander Pierce. Naturally, he is eager to get a firm handle on the current situation. Stark will tell you where to proceed from there and hopefully,” he looked toward Steve, “you can do things your way this time around.”

With that, the gates heaved and crept open, letting in a small breeze. The winds were soft and grazing and, for a moment, the wasteland seemed quiet and serene, drenched the effulgent yellows of early morning. This was Steve’s home now, and he had to defend it.

Their caravan moved at a steady pace through the sand. Dorothy handled the navigations system well in spite of her obvious discomfort. Shotgun was loaded heavy with donated rations in addition to Sam’s usual wares, Earl following in his mother’s footsteps. Several other brahmin trailed behind them, waiting for their new pen and a chance to rest in the shade.

Eventually, they reached a low-lying building on the horizon, a squat, ordinary thing with its windows boarded up and a large crack running along the western wall. “Home, sweet home,” Sam said. “At least for now anyway.” He crossed over to the high fences and unlocked a hitch, sending the door swinging open. Dorothy and Shotgun remained at their sides while the rest of the herd piled into the pen.

Sam readied their trough. He unburdened Dorothy and Shotgun and let them roam with the rest. Eventually, he called the trio in, promising water and some of the bizarre fruit he had hacked from the trees nearby. They ate quietly. Steve saw Sam’s eyes dart to the black box.

He chugged the last gulps of water and shoved his chair from the table. He motioned for them to follow. The brahmin had spread out in the expansive pen, some basking in the sun, gnawing at scraps of grass and others sitting in the shade.

“Now once Dorothy and Shotgun are through with the hauling from the new site, you can bring them back here,” Sam said. “Earl’s a bit of a wild child, so having Shotgun back will calm him down.” Earl was bucking near the gates, bleating and calling. Sam walked over to Shotgun. Steve lifted the black box onto her back and Natasha and Clint tied it down.

“Dorothy will be glad for the break,” Sam said, “The regular crates and sacks she can handle better. The shape of this thing isn’t conducive to easy packing.”

“Thanks for your help Sam,” Steve said, “You didn’t have to volunteer so much of your personal resources for this project.”

Sam waved him off. “Dude, it’s helping out Captain America, there’s no way in hell I’d say no to that.” He led the two brahmin to the gate.

“Good to hear,” Steve said. His face glowed.

“And if any of you ever need a place to lay low,” Sam held out a set of keys. “You can always crash here.” Steve took the keys and distributed one to Natasha and Clint.

 

\+ + +

 

The lights of Interstate glimmered in the distance, reflecting off of the broken overpass. Clint was able to make out the sign. “Almost there,” Steve said through the bandana masking his face. The bottles and cans rattled in Dorothy’s load. Shotgun took to the black box immediately, and gave no lull or guttural groan during the last leg of the trip.

Apart from some virulent wildlife, the trip had been quiet and nearly carefree. Clint exchanged caps for a couple stimpacks with another trader along the way. She said that she’d been out past Langley a couple days ago. “It was fuckin’ hard to get in there—they’ve been building up their walls. A few of theirs recently bit it.” She made a gun out of her hand and said, “Pow! Right in the head!” Clint thanked her and moved on.

In spite of the smooth journey, Steve had been guarded the whole time. He was silent about the hard drive, unsure if Natasha wanted information spread too widely, even if it were to a trusted friend like Clint. Regardless, he kept his mind on the matter at hand and prepared for his talk with Pierce.

The lights were still a way off. The sun was beginning rimming the horizon, sending red smoldering through the skyline. It was almost beautiful, save for the silhouettes of crumbling buildings, the petrified remains of that day trapped in the soil.

Natasha stopped in her tracks. In the far left field of Steve’s vision, he caught a glowing red light. A scope! Immediately he held up his shield, in time for a trio of bullets to ring out on the horizon. He rolled behind cover. Clint and Natasha dived behind a boulder. None of the bullets had struck his shield and he fervently searched for their resting place. Natasha and Clint were okay. Rapidly they formed a plan. A few more bullets buried themselves in the rock, but they were not harmed.

Dorothy and Shotgun were bellowing, startled by the gunfire. Sparks flew from the black monolith as bullets dented the casing. Another burst of sparks and Steve was sprinting toward Shotgun, shield raised. A spattering of bullets bounced off his shield and a second sprayed at the ground near his feet.

Natasha was zigzagging up the hill, darting behind cover. Clint sprinted up the opposite side of the rise, screwing a scope onto his magnum in his deft hands. Soon the bullets moved upward. A sickening crack sounded behind Steve and Shotgun fell to one knee. The box moved out from Steve’s cover and gunfire continued its bombardment against the casing. Shotgun bellowed in pain as another crack sent her to her side.

Natasha reached the top first. A man in a dark trench coat and an armored mask was situated on the steep rock with goggles obscuring his eyes. She could just make out the green lights of night-vision goggles. Long brown hair floated on the breeze. The figure appeared not to notice them. He reloaded his gun and sent another barrage of bullets ricocheting off of Steve’s shield.

He only turned their way once Clint initiated covering fire from several yards below. His bullets chipped into the rock above the assailant’s head and his attention was averted. Clint continued to distract the figure, rolling between boulders and trees, dodging the returning fire.

Steve crouched down, attempting to move the beast. He assessed the damage. Two of her legs bled profusely, darkening the surrounding dirt. The heads still continued their calls. Quickly he untied the device and sent it flying off of her back down the slope. He wrenched the bandana from his face and knotted it around her knee. He turned to the figure and formed a shield between it and Shotgun, wind biting his cheeks. Suddenly the figure dropped his weapon. His hands trembled. He swayed and balanced himself against the rock.

Natasha crept up the rock and turned a corner. A pronged object flew into the man’s back, sending sparks flying through his system. The distracted figure collapsed into the rock. Clint’s fire ceased and soon the only thing they heard were Shotgun’s last pained cries.

Natasha knelt down to remove the mask. As soon as her hands graced the surface his left hand shot up. She felt cool metal against her skin. Her right hand seized his sleeve in a last ditch effort to stabilize, but he sent her flying down the rock, the force ripping his sleeve clean off. She slid down the surface of the crag, hands grinding against stone and sand. She used the sleeve to catch herself on an outlying branch. She slowed to a halt and jumped down the rest of the way rolling into cover.

Quickly she regained her balance, in time to see a metal arm almost glimmering in the twilight, its ridges complex and ever-shifting, like the seams and hinges of a radscorpion’s exo-skeleton. Slowly, he shook off the pronged object. Something else landed at his feet. Clint smirked as he ducked away. The object spun on the rock from the force of the throw. Quickly, the figure jumped off into a crevice. Fire burst from his roost, sending rock and gravel flying outward.

Natasha covered her head and waited for the dust to settle. Clint ran to her. “What the fuck was that?” he yelled.

She hushed him and all was quiet once more. The man had disappeared. “We need to get back to Rogers.” They skid down the hill and found him at its foot. He knelt in the sand near Shotgun, whose breath was dying slowly. The monolithic hardware lay in the dust, dented but not penetrated. Steve rubbed her side as she ceased movement. “It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. She had lost too much blood. Her weight sank into the sand, with no life to support it.

Steve stood up and wiped his eyes. “I’ll carry it the rest of the way. Dorothy should be nearby. Let’s move,” Steve said, regaining his composure. He did not want to let her lie there in the dust, but there was no alternative.

 

\+ + + 

 

“Do you think it was him?” Pierce asked. “Our assassin?”

He sat at his desk. Across from him were Steve and Natasha, still rough around the edges from their close encounter. Clint lay on the couch near the opposite wall. “I don’t know. I can’t confirm that one way or the other,” Steve said. “It wasn’t any common raider or merc. Even if it wasn't our killer, he may be working with him.”

"His firing patterns were strange,” Clint said. He crossed his arms over his chest, unused to the plush furniture beneath him. “He hardly cared about any of us, only about the vertibird part. He didn’t shoot to kill, not even when he fired at Shotgun.”

“That would make sense,” Natasha said. “Disabling the prototype while it is in pieces is a smarter plan than confronting it head on.” She guzzled her bottle of water, remembering the metal hand locked around her wrist. She said nothing about his metal arm and Steve followed suit.

“This development makes it imperative that we put all our energies toward the completion of Project Insight,” Pierce said. He put down his whiskey and pulled out a map. “Record these coordinates, Romanov.” She brought her pipboy up and updated her map. “You and Barton get some rest, I need to have a word with Rogers.”

Clint sat up and paused. Steve looked to him and nodded slowly and the two made their leave. He knew where Natasha would be visiting Tony Stark and was relieved that she was no longer under any scrutiny. Instead it suited him better to keep Pierce focused on Project Insight.

“You wanted to discuss something?” Steve said.

Pierce made a steeple of his fingers and lounged back in his chair. “Rumlow tells me that you disagree with his methods.”

"I won’t deny it,” Steve said. He left his water bottle unopened. “He said he was your representative. If that's so, then your methods deserve close consideration as well.”

“I am not sure a handful of feral ghouls is call for such accusations, Rogers,” Pierce said, standing up and pacing the room. “Were it not for him, you might have fallen to them.”

Steve’s hands gripped the edge of his armrests. “They weren’t all feral. Some had things to offer us and we could have given them a home. Frank—”

“Frank is a different matter, yes. Rumlow spoke of him.” Pierce took a deep swig of water and cleared his throat. “You can’t trust everything a ghoul says, Rogers. Some were alive before the war, yes, but it is rare. Many go mad from the ghoulification. They create false memories and wild stories. I don’t think kinship founded on such fabrications bodes well for anyone.”

Steve held his tongue, having not considered the fact that Frank may have been delusional or even lying, but the way his voice lit up when he realized he was meeting Captain America was not something he could ignore. He couldn’t have faked it. That was the voice of a man who had lived through the war and watched the bombs fall. Frank knew of Steve's failure firsthand, but accepted him even then.

"Will those methods bleed into Project Insight?" 

“We must remain focused, Rogers. This is an undertaking larger than any one of us. The people know it too. Just look at the flow of supplies our agents have organized. We are feeding and medicating an entire fleet of people to reconstruct this aircraft and for relief efforts across the wasteland.” His face was softer around the edges, confident and calm.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“What question would that be?”

“You don’t deny that Rumlow was your representative, and you endorse his use of violence.” Steve leaned forward over the table as he stood, eyeing Pierce below him with a burning, accusing gaze. “Is your solution just to gun down everyone on suspicion alone, with no provisions for negotiation or understanding?”

Pierce rose to meet him, his mouth open wide in outrage. “This project is about hope, Rogers! It’s about unifying S.H.I.E.L.D. against the wasteland, to rise and stand as one true body.”

“It shouldn’t have to be ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ We can't sequester ourselves from all outside influence, Pierce.”

Pierce scoffed. “All this after you and your party were just attacked—perhaps by the same gunman who has been terrorizing our settlements. Your idealism is preposterous, Rogers.”

“Even with the best intentions things go sour. Sanctioned violence is still violence, Pierce.”

Pierce groaned. “You would back out of this over split hairs, Rogers? Tell that to the citizens of Langley, tell that to the orphans running around begging on the streets. The people of this community are counting on you. They’re _sacrificing_ so this project can come to completion. All because of you.” Pierce’s mouth screwed in concentration. His eyes wandered from papers on his desk to his own hands. Then he had understood. “What will it take to convince you to remain with this project?”

Steve drew back from the desk. “I’m doing this for the people, Pierce. I need authority to leverage the use of the prototype.” Adrenaline surged in his chest and the words came pouring out of his mouth. “Give me a seat S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security council and let me help decide how this thing will be used, then you have your super-soldier and your damn mascot.”

Pierce was silent for a minute, reaching for an answer. His look was penetrating and reflective. Slowly Steve’s usefulness spread across his mind and a small sneer bloomed on his face. “You will have your influence, Rogers, but first you must earn it. Fury trusts you more than most, but I haven’t lived this long by trusting everyone I met. Rumlow will join you on the next leg of the journey. This partnership is a two-way street, Rogers. Do not forget that.”

Steve pursed his lips but he had no response. The opportunity was too great to pass up and he feared anything he said back would jeopardize it. Instead, he merely nodded and took his leave. Pierce still. Anger flowed through his veins. He booted up his computer and typed out a small message to Hillside. "We must re-calibrate."

            

\+ + +

           

He descended down into the deep corridors of Vault 37, following the hiss of a welding gun, carrying the heavy load from straps over his shoulder. JARVIS led the way, his tentacle-like extensions pointing here and there, giving an impromptu history of Vault 37. “Military and industry leaders of the former Fort Roxbury were safely sealed within this vault until 2147, when vault-dwellers took their first steps into the wasteland.” Steve strained but he couldn’t remember who took shelter here.

He did recall a letter arriving for him and Bucky. It was two months after the massacre in New York. The apartment was no longer in boxes, but started looking like a home. He had been sketching when Bucky came in, rucksack slung over one shoulder. He held it out to Steve and Steve weighed it in his hands. The Vault-Tec logo was emblazoned on one side. Steve stood at the kitchen table while he cut the envelope open, Bucky behind him, arms wrapped around his sides.

He had been more willing to touch then. Bucky thought their stay at Fort Roxbury was a glorified exile. Steve agreed, but it was not without its benefits. No longer was Steve paraded around, forced to smile and wave and regurgitate pretty words on America's expansionism; and no longer was Bucky pushed to the side, his efforts ignored because of his "unusual" connection to Steve. He was freer now, anonymous in the crowds. Bucky could just touch Steve, run his hands along his arm, press his face into his shoulder. He didn’t have to care anymore.

Steve pressed into his touch as he shook the pamphlet loose. A thin metal card was encased in a sparsely printed sheet of paper. A cordial greeting was followed by an invitation to a vault—Steve strained to remember which—with a confirmation number and an RSVP, as if a friend were inviting them to a New Year’s party. Near the bottom of the page Erskine had signed personally.

Steve considered his surroundings as JARVIS prattled on. Perhaps he was meant to inhabit this Vault, to age and whither below ground as the remains of humanity struggled above. He wondered what indignities life underground would have entailed.

JARVIS opened the lab hatch. Tony sat at a nearby bench, going over blueprints and schematics.

“Where do you want this?” Tony pointed to a nearby table and Steve set it down. Tony focused his energies on the vertibird’s schematics so he could explore the navigations system with fuller attentiveness.

Eventually, Tony ripped his attention away from the schematics to come and examine the device. The surface was scorched and dented. Tony said it was built from the same materials of the black boxes on airplanes. He slowly unscrewed the lid and laid eyes on the network of circuits and wires. “Ain’t she a beauty?”

“What is it, exactly?”

“It’s a navigations system, technically.” In no time at all, Tony was prying between layers. His eye socket squinted over a magnifying lens, keeping it in place. “Very experimental stuff. Your friend Frank may have worked on it. It's a shame. I could have used another set of eyes on this. Damn Rumlow…”

“What do you mean ‘technically?’”

Tony took a deep breath and braced himself. “In addition to keeping the thing in the air, it can also act as an automated targeting system.”

Everything pulled hard to port. In an instant, Steve’s hand was planted on the lid, squeezing it shut, nearly catching Tony’s hands in the casing. “A targeting system? An _automated_ targeting system?”

Tony shook his head. “I knew you’d react like this.”

Circling around, blocking Tony’s access to the device, Steve leaned against the table. His mouth twisted in frustration. Was every society so bent on its own destruction ? He cursed the day man discovered the atom.

“How should I be responding?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, understanding how it works?” He edged in past Steve. “First of all, it’s missing a key component to function as a targeting implement. It will navigate fine, in that it can fly itself from place to place, but without someone at the helm, it can’t do more than that.” Tony turned to Steve. “Besides, a system like this would need a lot of data to base its targeting decisions on.”

The stack of papers flew to mind. “The census,” Steve uttered. “SHIELD is having everyone take a census—personal history, political leanings, the works.” Steve’s face was burning, his nerves was on fire and his mind was endlessly supplying visions of horror—shooting down those who would rebel, those who would disobey, all because of a list of questions that some wouldn’t even understand.

“I wouldn’t panic just yet, Rogers. This is like the third time they attempted the SHIELD census. Half the time, the papers get lost in transit or people throw ‘em out.” Tony rubbed Steve’s shoulder while his other hand unscrewed another plate. “Come on. I already told you that a big part is missing, didn’t I? Don't you trust me on this, big guy?”

The images still surged forth, but Steve put on his calm exterior. “I do.”

“Good.” Tony nudged past him and reopened the container. “Besides, I would never install something like that in a ‘bird this deadly. That’d just be plain irresponsible.” He stroked his chin again. “Although…it would be interesting to see it in action.”

“Tony,” Steve warned.

Tony waved him away. “Don’t worry, Captain, I won’t be making any death-machines anytime soon. I am the head engineer, after all. I doubt even Pierce is fully acquainted with the system's capabilities.”

Steve sat nearby quietly as Tony examined the hardware, twiddling with circuits and neatly collecting pieces nearby for repair. Tony was patient and exacting in his work, screws and nuts organized meticulously on a nearby surface, tools arranged within easy reach. The way he blindly reached out and grabbed an instrument spoke to his expertise.

After taking it apart and reconstructing it, Tony whistled and closed the device. He poured himself a drink and settled near Steve, who was eying a pile of familiar hard drives. “So you know about Fury’s project too, huh?”

“Natasha gave me the heads up,” Steve said. “Someone’s been tampering with computers all through the wasteland.” He nodded toward the stack of drives. “A lot of them by the looks of it. What good would that do?”

“There’s a lot we still don’t know about the area. I mean, this was all a military base, really. There could be dozens of secret tunnels or hidden weapons stores. Maybe even a vault is lying open somewhere, waiting to be explored. Someone could stand to profit a lot with information like that.”

“Any leads?”

Tony was steely and quiet for a minute. “Vault-Tec technology, no doubt about that. Things get left behind when you data-mine like that. Not many people can trace it though. Then again, not many people are Tony Stark.” Steve chuckled.

Steve was facing Tony. “What were they looking for?”

“Some type of software and more data concerning the area. And they didn’t want anyone else to find it, either. There is something that I cannot track, however, the dates of extraction. It could still be happening, or it could have happened a century ago. It’s hard to say, but worth investigating.”

“Can you put together what went missing, find out what the software is for specifically?”

Tony nodded. “If I get enough points of reference.” He waved toward the stack of hard drives similar to the one Natasha used. “The data is still there, they just scrambled it and rewired the computer so it would no longer have access to it.” Tony took a swig and stretched, raising the glass far above his head.

His face was somber and sober for a moment. “Natasha told me about Frank. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your apology to give,” Steve said. He opened a bottle of water and drank deeply.

“Does it ever get lonely for you?” Tony said.

Steve met his gaze. “I don’t know. I know I’m not alone. Clint and Phil have been good to me and Natasha and I finally have an understanding but…”

Tony was still. “But?”

“It’s just hard finding someone with shared life experience,” Steve muttered.

“I see.” His hand clenched Steve’s shoulder again and a slur was beginning to assert itself in his voice. “If you ever need a buddy, you can sleep on my couch. Or elsewhere,” he said with a smirk.

Steve smiled softly. “Thanks for the offer,” Steve sighed. “I had fun last time, don’t get me wrong…I just need some time to myself after all of this is done. Maybe build a house—that’s something I always wanted to do.”

Tony removed his hand from Steve’s shoulder. “If you ever need some tools, you know where to go.”

 

 

\+ + +

 

All around him were swirling, dark figures. His vision was blurred at the edges. Soon all fight left his limbs and they sank into the armrests like stones in a stagnant pond. Slowly he scanned the room. A group of figures huddled around him amidst the wires and electricity. He did not know why he had returned. A mysterious impetus propelled him to this location, this murky corner of the wasteland.

He struggled to recall names, to match faces to each aggressor, but he was growing weaker beneath the weight of the injections. His mind swam and spun listlessly in the dark. He remembered red, white and blue circling around a man with blond hair, but the name never emerged, no matter how hard he struggled to uncover it. The man with light hair loomed large in his memories. He was everywhere, but always his image was scattered and distorted, his voice cut off and his touch censured, never reaching his skin

Eventually, through the murky waves of delirium, a voice reached him. “You appear to have taken an interesting side project, ” the man said. His face was still entrenched in darkness, but he knew to listen like how mammals knew to breathe air.

“It’s interesting,” another squeaky voice said, “how a familiar face can unravel so much hard work.”

The suave voice returned. “Then we’ll have to remove the face from the picture, won’t we?”

“W-who was he? That man in the wasteland?” the man in the chair called out, struggling against his bindings. “I knew him. I knew him” As the words extended past his lips, the man in the suit reached out and struck him.

“That is not your concern. Your concern is making people see the light,” the suave voice said.

“But I knew him. Why? Why did I know him?”

Another slam against his jaw and blood ran down the corners of his mouth. The man whispered to another figure nearby. “Put him under.” His eyes widened, suddenly he burst forth from his bindings, thrashing frantically in a circle around him. Shadowy figures scattered to the sides. His left arm shot out, grabbing the suited man’s throat, his feet dangling inches off the ground. The plates slid into place as his grip tightened around the man’s trachea. “Who was he? Who—“

A crack sounded. Suddenly the room was dark again. His body lulled back in the seat. He heard a small whirring above his head. A large sphere descended on him, covering his skull. The smell of burning metal settled in his nose and he remembered what came next. Slowly the apparatus closed in around his head and suddenly everything was bright, searing pain.

 

 


	9. Whiplash

 

 

 Steve awoke on a threadbare couch. His body knew it was dawn and he rose. He gathered his supplies for the upcoming journey, shaking the sleep from his head. As he pulled on his boots, he heard the warm rush of a Mr. Handy approaching. JARVIS turned the corner, arms darting this way and that, cleaning the beer cans and empty bottles of Tony’s wake.

“Good morning, sir,” the robot’s speaker said jovially. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for asking,” Steve said over his shoulder. He swung a rucksack over his shoulder and buttoned his jacket. Soon the sound of heavy boots followed. Stark stood in his usual tank top and grease-stained vault jumpsuit that was zipped only to the waist. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep and had a haunted look about them. Steve was unsure if it was the lack of sleep or his unceasing labor on Project Insight. He didn’t ask. In spite of the disconcerting dullness in his gaze and the rapid pensiveness behind his eyes, Tony’s smirk still lingered on his lips.

“Quite the circadian rhythm you got there,” Tony held up a wristwatch. “Five a.m. on the dot.”

Steve smiled. “It’s a hard habit to kick.”

Tony yawned and tossed him the watch. Steve held it to the light. The Rolex was polished to a mirror-like finish and he felt it delicately tick in his palm. The face and band were plain gold, but impeccably well kept. It looked near garish in his calloused grip. Steve looked up at Tony in disbelief. “What is this?”

“A present,” Tony scratched his head. “It used to be my father’s, before he…anyway, I want you to have it.”

Steve shook his head. “No, Tony, I can’t accept this.”

Tony shrugged and approached him. “Nonsense. It suits you much better than me. Besides,” Tony tapped the watch face, “it might come in handy. Think of it as a gift.”

Steve strapped it around his wrist, decided against it, and folded it carefully in his bandana. It rested in the front pocket of his worn jacket. “I’ll take good care of it,” he said.

Soon they were accompanied by the gentle whir of an eyebot’s engine. Its antennae swooned and twitched. “Seems like you’re ready to go.” Tony grabbed a stale cup of coffee and drank. “There is something I should mention,” Tony added.

“What is it?”

“At the risk of discrediting myself as the greatest engineer and robotics expert in the wasteland, I noticed only late last night that my sentries near the Langley site have been compromised.”

“Any idea what caused it?”

“It could be anything from wild animals to a persistent prospector,” Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We won’t know for sure until we get out there. Just be careful, okay?”

Steve nodded. “I’ll keep my guard up. Thanks for the info, Tony.” Tony gave him a mock-salute that Steve returned. He turned on his boot heels and started his trek toward the surface. As his footsteps echoed in the vault, chatter and talk rose in his ears. He steeled himself. Slowly, the vault’s doors unhinged and the dawn burst in.

Near the chain-link fences, a formidable group of traders and townsfolk were gathered. Natasha and Clint stood among them, clearly anxious to get moving. They were largely ignored by the crowd, who chose instead to watch the Captain's movement. As he descended, his eyes met Pierce’s and his body tensed. Tony audibly groaned through the eyebot’s speaker. “Another goddamn speech?” the tiny microphone reported. The eyebot floated away from Steve and over to Clint and Natasha.

“The man of the hour has arrived,” he heard Pierce say over the gathering. Rumlow stood near the fence, his mouth twisted into a harsh sneer. His black eye was somewhat healed, a greenish-brown memory on his skin. He spat in the dirt as Steve neared. Next to him were more crates emblazoned with his shield’s insignia, waiting for donations of supplies and the Hillside attendant waiting for bottle caps. Steve scanned the perimeter and counted a dozen Hillside guards. They were well disciplined, to have mobilized this efficiently.

“Here begins the second portion of our operation,” Pierce announced. His manner neared the border of grandiose, but never crossed over. He laid out the steps in the project for the crowd to hear. A typist sat in a shop nearby, copying down the speech for posterity.

Pierce made a grand gesture. Assembling the components was only the first part of the project. Where the intense investment of medicine and caps was to be found was in the third part—transferring the mighty aircraft to its storage facility and defending it from any unwanted attention. Hauling the parts would inevitably draw the ire of wasteland raiders and tribals both.

“For,” Pierce began, “even staring down the barrel of a rifle, one held by the superior fighter, the common beasts of the wasteland still fight and cling to life, fueled by vain hopes of survival.” The denizens and traders listened closely, watching Pierce with wide eyes.

After fierce gesticulation and pedagogy, Pierce quit his post and invited Rogers to speak to the crowd. Their numbers had grown over the course of his explication. The sun was rising in earnest now. He saw Natasha leer at him as she tapped the face of her Pip-boy.

Steve cleared his throat. “I’m not great at speeches, in spite of what various recordings might lead you to believe,” his body assumed a formal, military pose.

“It is neither for Pierce nor for Fury that I assumed these duties. I persist for the people of S.H.I.E.L.D., their safety and their well-being.” He looked to Pierce and found a cold, but cordial stare. “In an ideal world, this aircraft will never have to leave its platform, will never fire on living souls or darken the skies. Instead, I hope that its completion will bring reason to those who would do harm to another. Instead, I wish for the completion of the project to inspire conversation, negotiation and peaceful surrender, so that these people may choose peaceful, productive lives of rehabilitation.” Steve crossed his arms. “That is the spirit in which I labor for you all today. I invite all of you to think long and hard about what this firepower means, to perform the labor which the leaders of 2077 would not.”

He paused. Every eye was on him and every ear perked to his speech. Some faces were confused. Hands were clutched near people’s chests, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Natasha and Clint were huddled in whispered conversation. Still, others nodded in agreement, mouths open to speak or cheer but thwarted by Pierce’s sudden seizing of the floor.

“In an _ideal world_ , indeed, Captain Steve Rogers. I’m sure you all have questions of Captain Rogers’ interesting interpretation, but I cannot detain him or his squad for any longer. Let him see your support by generously giving to the effort. The most laborious and treacherous steps have yet to come.”

Steve nodded and marched past the gathering, feeling eyes on him the whole way. Natasha and Clint joined him and Rumlow took up the rear. “And if any of you have yet to complete the official SHIELD census, representatives from Hillside will be sure to visit your homes and places of business throughout the day,” Pierce called over the crowd.

They were through the fence. Steve looked back and saw handfuls approaching the crates, faces ranging from hopeful to desperate. As soon as they were out of earshot, Steve turned to Rumlow. “Neither of us wants to be in each other’s company, so I will make this brief: follow my lead and I will keep my thoughts on your previous conduct to myself. Do not speak to me outside of what is absolutely necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

Rumlow cracked his neck and spat out another viscous blob of his chewing tobacco. “Crystal,” he sneered.

 

\+ + +

 

The sun reached its feverish peak as they neared Langley. “Langley Shopping Plaza,” a weathered sign robustly declared. The neon elements had been removed from the rusted casing and “Langley” brightly glowed near the west side of town. In high towers near the chain link fence, Steve spotted two men with long-barreled rifles

As they passed Langley’s walls, they saw violent threats painted in large jagged letters: “We shoot to kill!” and “Trespassers beware!” Everything from old steel barrels to plywood boards were fastened together along the perimeter, obscuring the inner dealings of Langley entirely. Steve would have characterized it as paranoid, were it not for the recent killings and executions of their defenders. Steve recognized the black armor of Hillside forces on the surveying guards.

The group turned north and the eyebot led them from then on. They soon came to a wide basin. Jagged rocks rimmed the edges, winding through the wide crevices of the cracked Earth. “This must be new, Steve,” Natasha said.

“Yeah,” Steve said. He looked at the rocks. Layers and layers of sediment composed them. “I guess if you really tried, you can argue that warheads on the landscape are a type of abstract-expressionism,” Steve chuckled darkly. “The carnage the bombs waged on the landscape is as erratic as a Pollock, arguably.” Steve looked up the canyon walls as they gradually obstructed the sun. “Not that I’d ever argue that,” Steve added.

“‘Abstract expressionism?’” Clint asked.

“It’s a style of painting,” Steve said. “Scattered lines of shape, bold colors, the artist’s hand, all that jazz.” He looked to Clint who only politely nodded.

After that, Steve made little effort for conversation. Rumlow’s presence brought with it a tense pall. It was no matter, as the steepening crags demanded acute attention. The rock was dull and weathered after centuries of sooty rains and whipping sand, which made footing another challenge all its own.

Steve’s right foot slid on a smooth patch of stone. He clutched at the side of the rock. His hand came loose as a fragment rolled down the side of the ravine, echoing loudly though the rocky halls. Steve watched it go down. As it reached its resting place, he heard a metallic click. The ground burst beneath it, throwing flame and debris left and right. Steve regained his footing and sheltered himself behind a nearby spire, covering Natasha with his shield.

Three more explosions resounded, resounding brilliantly in the basin. And then suddenly everything was eerily quiet, save for the settling of debris. “Well, that’s new,” Tony said blandly through the eyebot's speakers. “That might explain what happened to my sentry units. Mystery solved, I guess.”

Clint squinted in the late afternoon light and pointed down below. “I see them, the lights of the mines. Goddamn, there have to be hundreds of them.” Steve followed his finger and sure enough, he too spotted the glow of the frag mines dotting the wide, flat basin.

“This will be interesting,” Natasha commented.

They were watching their feet as they descended, the rocky paths fortunately clear. When they reached the bottom, the eyebot pointed out the two vertibirds. They lay in shambles in a cave all the way across the basin. The remnants of cement and hardware surrounded them, suggesting ruins of another storage site. Near the mouth of the cave was a ring of mines, menacingly glowing in the dying lights of evening. A long stretch of treacherous sand divided them from their bounty.

“Could we just set them all off?” Clint said, tilting his head. “Get it over with?”

“If we wanted to blow up the parts we need, then yes,” Natasha answered.

Steve examined the surrounding rocks; the path they had taken appeared to be anomaly among the shifted stone. The other sides only held narrow ledges and precariously balanced boulders. Any climbing or advancement could set more of the mines off, bringing the whole canyon down on top of them and their quarry. “There’s no climbing around it. We can’t afford to set off those bombs, either. No telling if the sides of the hills will fall down on top of us if we do,” Steve said. He caught Rumlow out of the side of his eye. “Any thoughts?” Rumlow was silent.

“Grab that casing for me,” Tony said. Natasha picked up the exploded case and brought it to Tony’s camera. “These models are pretty dodgy. Half the time they’re duds. They were pretty shoddy, even back in the day. If you step lightly enough and keep outside their perimeter, you should be able to cross in one piece.”

“I’ll pass,” Rumlow said. Steve glared at him and Rumlow returned it. “Well this is your golden ticket to the Security Council, Rogers. Don't let _me_ get in your way.”

Steve’s fists clenched but he did not want to start with him now. “Fine. Clint, keep watch with Rumlow.”

Clint groaned. “Aww, again?”

“Yes, again. We don’t know if any raiders have taken up here. Someone had to arm all of these mines. Having an extra watch will help things run smoothly.”

Clint scowled but relented. He climbed up high onto a ledge, careful not to dislodge any more rocks. He settled in his roost and loaded his rifle. Rumlow remained down below. “Well, get a move on then,” he growled.

Natasha proceeded first stepping carefully onto the basin floor. She swept her red hair behind her ears and stepped forward as lightly as she could. Tony’s eyebot graphed out the placement of each mine. “One mine six feet to your left, three more at two o’clock. Watch your right foot. Easy, now.” She kept her cool. Thankfully, the sun no longer diluted their glow. The eyebot gave his directions, detecting the mines hidden by windswept sands. She stepped left and right, keeping her balance, never wavering except to sweep the hair from her face.

Steve looked on from the opposite side. “She’s light on her feet, stop worrying. You’re making me nervous,” Clint said from his post. Steve bit his thumb as Natasha weaved between the glowing lights.

Natasha came up to the ring of lights surrounding the entrance to the cave. The two bodies of the vertibirds could just be made out in their glow. She was close. She looked to the eyebot.

“Any ideas?” Tony asked.

She scanned the perimeter. A metal pipe jutted out from the rock about five feet above her head. She sprang up and gripped it. Her legs covered a wide arc, swinging faster and faster, building up momentum and nerve. She swung back and then pushed all her weight to the front, letting go of the pipe. She somersaulted over the mines and landed with a small crack against the vertibird’s windshield. She looked toward the lights. She paused. They remained constant under her gaze. She stepped down carefully.

The cave appeared to be part jagged stone and part manmade. A few toolboxes and supplies rusted in crates nearby. An iron door was embedded in the concrete, bulging at its soldered seams. She was sure that only rock and destruction lay behind it.

“Any chance I can do this on my own?” she asked, looking to Tony’s eyebot.

“If you can carry a two-hundred pound, armored engine casing _and_ the fifteen-point-five pound fuel injector across the death-field, then yeah, piece of cake.”

“Very funny,” she shot back. She retrieved her walkie-talkie, giving Steve the okay to cross. Tony’s eyebot flew back over the expanse, mapping the same route Natasha had taken, though it was becoming difficult to see her prints in the dirt.

“Just follow me, and everything will be peachy, okay?” Tony said. Steve nodded and secured his shield and walkie-talkie, tugging at the fastenings. He stepped toward the minefield and began creeping toward the wreckage, suddenly hyper aware of each toe inside his sodden boots and the drops of sweat running down his brow.

He stepped in Natasha’s footprints, following as much the low light would allow. “That’s it, Cap, nice and easy.”

“Right,” Steve answered.

“Whoever laid these was a total amateur, tons of blind spots. You got this.”

Steve hopped over another embankment. “What kind of nut-job would go through all the trouble to cover all this ground in military-grade explosives?”

“They’re persistent, whoever they are.”

Clint lowered his binoculars. “Everything seems to be going alright.” He said it more for his own comfort than Rumlow's.

Brock only grunted. “I’m gonna take a leak.” He circled around up the path, searching for a place away from the mines. The darkness made navigation tedious, which sent Brock spiraling with impatience. Eventually, he found a clearing and unzipped his trousers, letting the urine trickle on the sand.

He looked over the boulder on the basin below. Rogers was about halfway through the treacherous gallery of explosives—the man who took his place, the man who so easily courted favor just because of a dead name and some comic books. Brock knew the score of the wasteland. He was the one who should be leading this expedition, the one to be earning his place on the Security Council. Pierce had grown frustrated with Rogers long ago, but still he paraded him around like some prized possession. Brock would never have disobeyed. He knew the score.

Rogers was prized. Day in and day out, he heard talk of Captain America, the wasteland’s new hero. So strong and upstanding and vigilant. And then Pierce went and offered him a place in the sun, the empty seat on the Security Council, one he thought would never open again. That psycho and her engineered freak were done away with. He could have been the one to take her place, to earn the respect from Pierce she never did.

But then Rogers entered the picture. Brock had spent all of his life living off of the wasteland, scraping to get by. He knew the wasteland’s dangers and treasures but Rogers, the man who now seemed so small in the field of mines, had nothing to offer but ultimatums and platitudes.

Brock spat in the sand. He returned to his business, mouth in a hard, determined frown. He scanned the clearing, on the lookout for any interlopers or wild life. He squinted. In the shadows, he saw tent, the ground around it untouched by their earlier meandering.

He zipped up his fly. Slowly he crept toward the habitation, pulling out a serrated blade. As he neared, he heard faint snoring from within. With his free hand, he pulled out a flashlight. The edge of the knife slid between the flaps of the tent. One breath and Brock flung the flaps open, shining the light in the sleeper’s face. The man’s eyes shot open and he gasped.

In an instant, Brock’s boot was on his trachea. The man beneath it was gasping for air, writhing beneath the weight. “Who are you?” Brock growled.

Slowly, the man grinned a rotten, toothy grin. “I’ve found something precious,” he said, “something everyone will be looking for. Something that will make me rich,” he cackled.

“Found what?”

“The machines—the ones that used to fly high in the sky—I found them, and they are mine!” The man convulsed uselessly against Brock’s boot, but grinned manically nonetheless. His hair was long and flaccid, hanging from his scalp rather than growing from it. His eyes were glazed over and unaware. Scattered about the squalor were used up canisters of Jet and empty syringes. He was out of his mind with glee.

“And no one gets to it unless they pay the fee!” The man’s hand shot up. “Ten-thousand caps gets you to the birds.”

Brock cocked an eyebrow. “Why should I pay that?”

In the man’s other hand was a small detonator. “These birds are something special, oh yes they are! They have all these wonderful bullets and rockets that no one else has! And only I can lift the bridge, turn off all the lights!”

“It looks like you have the place neatly protected.” Brock released the man from his weight, but kept the light trained on his face and the knife on his throat. “Impressive,” Brock said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Security is of up-most importance to Clyde, yes it is!” A mad spark ran through his blue eyes. “Too bad Bonnie had to bite it! Had to keep these babies a secret, even from her! She said that they were worthless, but I knew people would come, I knew that people already knew about this place, what with those bozo-robots snooping about. Put an end to them I did!” Clyde didn’t care about the knife at his throat, as if he were certain his deal would guarantee his life. “I just flip this switch and the fire starts flying.”

Brock looked over his shoulder. Steve would still be in the field, stepping clumsily from spot to spot. No one would have to know about Clyde. Just one false step on its own spelled death. He had his in, Brock thought, Rogers could be out the picture. Easy as flipping a switch.

“Thanks for the tip.” Brock sprang with his knife and slashed Clyde’s throat. He sputtered. He grasped at the gushing wound with both hands, eyes wild. He staggered back and forth, smearing blood on the sides of the tent, mouth gurgling with outrage.

Brock elbowed him in the jaw and sent him flying to the ground, where he lay, twitching and then lifeless. From amidst the mess, Brock plucked the detonator. He made his way toward the edge of the clearing. Steve was almost there, but he would not be fast enough. He unlatched the lid and flipped the switch. He threw the detonator back in the tent and watched the show.

Three mines burst near the bottom of the path. Barton jumped back, shielding his head from the flash. He clicked his radio on and screamed into it. “Move, Rogers. Move!”

Steve heard mines bursting behind him and started leaping from point to point. “Shit, shit, shit!” Tony shouted. They eyebot hovered high above the explosions. It shined a light on the safe path for Steve to follow.

Left and right, mines burst, nearly mangling Steve as he bounded through the flame and shrapnel. Rock and fire bounced off his shield. He rolled behind a rock as a cluster of mines exploded in one fiery rupture. There was no pattern to the chain of fire. One patch would be calm while others burst into flame. No safe spot existed. Natasha clenched her jaw and dove into the cockpit of the vertibird, covering her head and plugging her ears. Clint, watching the field go up in ragged smoke, lost track of Roger's position.

Steve sprinted on, just keeping ahead of the wave until he saw the ring of mines near the mouth of the cavern. He leapt forward with his last ounces of energy, clearing the ring and colliding with the cement wall in back, diving into cover and waiting for the last tremors to spike. His breath was coming in spurts and every ligament jumped with nervous anticipation of flame and death. Slowly he peaked over the rim of his shield and he saw the light of the last rings, glowing softly in the dark. Natasha emerged from the cockpit, straightening her jacket. Smoke settled over the basin, lingered and then slowly cleared, revealing the rubble and destruction.

“Makes the trip back easier at least,” she muttered. Steve couldn’t help but laugh, as if his own lungs could not believe the air moving between their folds. Natasha smirked and stifled a laugh. Tony’s eyebot floated near and a small pebble landed on its frame. Steve and Natasha froze. Thankfully, the basin remained clear and the walls of the canyon remained standing.

Arms flailing wildly behind him, Clint sprang over the mines across the basin. “ARE YOU GUYS ALRIGHT!?”

Steve blinked. Taking a moment, he felt around for holes or wounds and he found no blood. Natasha nodded and Clint sighed deeply, hands collapsing onto his knees as he bent over, breathing deep, calming breaths. “Thank God.”

“Where’s Rumlow?” Steve asked.

“Huh?”

“Where has he gone, Clint?”

“He was right there. He said he was going to take a leak but…you don’t think…?”

A low grumble drew near. “Don’t think what?” Rumlow said. The three turned to him. Steve was smoldering.

“Nice timing,” Natasha spat, “waltzing away right before the mines blew up and waltzing back right after.”

Clint drew his gun and pointed it at Rumlow. They surrounded him in a crescent then. Natasha wielded her wrench like a weapon and Clint’s boots dug into the dust, ready to spring.

He only hissed through his teeth in fake-dismay, running a hand through his greasy hair. He watched Steve over their shoulders.

“Yeah, I meant to tell you about this nut-job up on the hill, but you and I,” he grinned slyly, “aren’t on speaking terms, remember?” A harsh breeze cut through the basin, sending sand and debris flying. Steve glared at Rumlow, who still so casually dug his hands in his pockets, digging out a cigarette and a light.

In three quick steps, he drew up face-to-face, so that Rumlow could see the disgust with his dull, sullen eyes. “Then why start now?” Steve’s heels dug in the sand. “Get out of my sight.”

Rumlow, his face screwing into a tight ball of anger, zipped up his jacket and marched off, kicking up sand in his wake. After he was a mere pinprick across the basin the trio began their extraction. Following Tony’s instruction, they were done in about two hours. During their labor, Clint’s eyes would dart up the path to the basin, but spotted nothing. Steve was silent, avoiding even Natasha’s gaze, his fingers rigid with indignation.

They decided to sleep there for the night, since the real menace had taken his leave. The eyebot lulled and sank to the ground, lifeless and unmoving. Clint and Natasha huddled up together in one cockpit and Steve curled up in the other, wanting to be alone. He had another dream.

He was seated across from Bucky and his coffee was getting cold. Large, ashen shapes swirled around them, sipping from mugs and laughing in their echoing, distorted conversation. Steve and Bucky looked out the impossibly wide window. It spanned the dark horizon. Dotting the sky were flaming spheres, slowly falling like snowflakes, each igniting the earth as it landed.

The mug burst beneath Steve’s grip. He cried and bellowed, saying that he had put those flames there in the sky, that he had plucked them from places no man should wander and had put them up there only to fall and kill and annihilate. Bucky only put his hand over his, slowly massaging his bleeding hand, whispering sweet, assuring whispers. 

“It’s not you fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault,” he said as his grip grew freezing cold. Steve’s hand froze to his, blood coagulating into ice and all feeling seeping out an inch at a time, up his arm until he could feel no more. One by one the chattering voices vanished, each terminating in a cry as the flaming orbs blew out, each extinguishing letting more and more darkness fall between them.

Bucky’s face was serene, accepting, lacking the playful fighting spirit it had before the war began.

It must have dissolved over time, in between the reports of riots and institutionalized violence, across each barbed-wire border, in each warehouse packed to the brim with rockets and firearms, before scorched bodies and burnt houses. His was a flame slowly extinguished, but the world was mostly water, after all. Bucky’s hand was cold and still in his, comfortable in the coming silence and for a moment, Steve wanted to stay cold with him, buried in frost and forgotten by the world. And they stayed there, ice collecting in each nook and cranny. For a moment, Steve was at peace.

“Goddamn it.” Tony’s voice was tinny and distant. Steve awakened. “You have to be kidding.” The eyebot slowly revved to life. “No! No!” A pause. “What part of ‘no’ do you not understand? Do you need a goddamn dictionary?” Tony must have been shouting in another part of the lab. Steve crept out of the cockpit, wiping sleep from his eyes. “I’m not doing that. This wasn’t part of my plan.” Another pause. “Yes, _my_ plan. I’m the one who’s putting the freakin’ thing together. Just give me a second.”

Clint and Natasha joined him in the alcove. The eyebot, its antennae frantically recalibrating a route, glided over to them. “I have to get this back to Interstate. You are not going to like this, Cap.”

“What’s going on?”

“A whole ton of crazy,” Tony said. “Just worry about getting back here. I’ll stall until I have you for back up. Hurry.” The eyebot whizzed out of the cave and ascended from the rocky basin. “No! This conversation is over, get out of my house!” Tony shouted.

 

\+ + +

 

They made record time across the wasteland, clearing away the radscorpions and mutated hounds with ease. Steve was nearing a run, even with the heavy hull strapped over his back. His lungs were burning but he forced himself to ignore them.

When they arrived, Steve blew by the chain-link fence, past the merchant stands and the smell of cooking meat, past curious eyes and armed guards. He wrenched the door of Vault 37 and flew down to Tony’s lab, dropping the hull near the entrance. As he neared Tony’s voice grew louder and louder. 

“Humor me, I’m curious. Just how long were you all planning on keeping his under wraps, hmm? Long enough for me to get the thing running?”

“Please Stark, try to see it from our perspective,” a voice responded. Steve pushed the hatch open. Three men stood across from Stark, all in gray, tattered suits. “Our method would mean much fewer resources would be expended on training a pilot _and_ you would still be on our payroll as head of maintenance and tech advisor.”

“No, this was meant for a human to pilot, a breathing person in the cockpit, someone who might object to lighting whole camps and villages on fire.”

“We aren’t asking you to put a Mr. Handy behind the wheel, for Christ’s sakes,” the taller man shot back.

“What’s going on here?” Steve boomed.

Tony’s eyes widened and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Great timing,” Tony swung an arm to the three men. “Can you back me up on this?” Steve’s eyes caught the monolith from before—still dented from the would-be assassin’s bullets—but next to it lay a thinner rectilinear box in sleek chrome.

“What is this?”

“A simple modification,” the shorter suited man answered. “One that will only increase efficiency,” he glared at tony, “Simple as that.”

The taller man cleared his throat. “With this addition, the prototype vertibird will be able to pilot itself and be able to assess and deal with threats according to our targeting parameters.”

Something surged inside of Steve. He had prayed that Pierce would not repeat his generation’s foolishness, but he had been sorely wrong. “This stops now,” Steve said.

“We have our orders from Pierce, Captain Rogers.”

Steve crossed the lab and snatched up the chrome panel. “Where is Pierce?”

"He is busy orchestrating—”

“I am not going to discuss this with any more of his ‘representatives,’ if he wants this project to move forward, then he can explain this to me in person. Now where is he?”

The taller man sneered. “He is meeting with Phil Coulson in the mess hall. Business lunch.” Steve jammed the box into the shorter man’s hands. They looked at him with pitying and disapproving eyes.

“JARVIS, escort these gentlemen out please,” Tony commanded.

“With pleasure, sir. Gentlemen, if you will please follow me?” The ends of its tendrils were doted with flame. The Mr. Handy floated out the lab, with the three men following at the urging of JARVIS's flamethrowers, their steps landing heavily on the metal grates.

“I can’t believe this. It’s happening all over again—drones, automated airstrikes. When will people learn, Stark?”

A computer nearby hummed and dinged. “It looks like my next meeting will be underway shortly. I’ll let you deal with Pierce, Rogers. Just give him the old stern-eye and he’ll come around.” Steve withdrew the hard drive from the computer and gave it a once-over. “Fury and I have another manner to discuss—I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Steve nodded and jogged outside.

Steve ran over to the mess haul. Earlier, he had failed to notice the chaos and clamor engulfing Interstate, but anger made everything clearer; Hillside guards marched left and right, clutching stacks of paper, shoving them into people’s faces and watching as they were hastily and fearfully completed, some at gunpoint. Groups of townsfolk were rallying together, preparing for the vertibird’s move, some spectators and others laborers, all of them watching and shouting excitedly. Some barely noticed Steve while others beckoned for help, lost amidst the clamor, but he could pay them no mind. 

Outside past the chain link fences were great carts and chains. On top of them, neat mounds of steel hulls and shining weaponry were arranged. Phil Coulson stood nearby, assessing the numbers and parts, going over each and every file so no pieces of the puzzle would be lost in transit. Clint stood nearby, gesturing wildly.

“It makes sense, Clint, that’s why.”

“You want to put something up there that can just shoot indiscriminately whenever it wants to? That makes sense?”

Phil lowered his clipboard. “We aren’t just gonna let it roam free, Clint. It will answer to us. We will have control over what it targets.” Phil’s hand took Clint’s. “I’m doing this so you can feel safe. No one should ever have to go through what you went through. This is for the better, Clint, I promise you.”

Clint softened at the touch but yanked his hand away. Phil’s mouth opened, but he had no reply. Clint approached Steve near the fence and Coulson swiftly followed “Is it true? This thing is gonna be automated?” Clint asked.

“Not if I can help it.” Steve eyed Phil warily. “How long have you known about this?”

Phil sighed. “Not until a few hours ago.” Phil shouted over his shoulder and directed one of the wings over to a third cart. The brahmin behind him lulled and bellowed as they were strapped onto the carts, feeling the burden of humanity. “This isn’t all going to happen at once, Steve. Pierce assured me that it we will have time to parse this out. Collecting targeting data and implementing a program to interpret it could take months.”

“And you trust him, Phil? The man who just now revealed that they are in possession of this targeting technology? You are going to follow him just like that?” Steve responded. Phil fell silent, trying to conjure a reply, but Steve gave him no time to answer. He merely shook his head and darted toward the mess hall through the chaotic throngs. He barreled through the double-doors.

The hall was empty of townsfolk. Pierce, the men in suits and a large handful of Hillside guards peopled it. “We need to talk,” Steve called across the hall.

“That we do,” Pierce said. He took a chair near the head of the mess hall and motioned for Steve to sit. Steve stood where he was, glaring at the man seated before him.

Pierce stared at him warily. His hands were neatly clasped in front of him, as always. Across his knuckles were splotches of blood and bruises. Steve paid them no mind, answering only to the flow of justice in his veins. “How long were you planning on keeping us in the dark, Pierce?”

“Captain Rogers,” he started, “this paranoid language concerns me.”

 “You’re the one who gave the order to withhold this information from me, from Stark and the people of S.H.I.E.L.D. You’re the one who wants an automated death-machine roaming the skies, shooting and killing anyone who falls within your parameters.” Steve crossed his arms, not breaking his gaze, “And you have the nerve to call me ‘paranoid?’”

Pierce’s long fingers drummed the aluminum table. His mouth was small and sour and his eyes glazed over, as if this conversation had already dulled his senses. He was slow to reply. “These are the types of decisions you would be making on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Security Council, Rogers. No one said they would be easy ones. You of all people should know that.” He took a long drink of his Nuka-Cola. “Sacrifice is the name of the game. Everyone has to sacrifice a little freedom for security. It is what life in the wasteland demands.”

“This is asking too much, Pierce.”

“Really? Don’t forget, you stand to gain a lot in this transaction: an opportunity to influence it all. That’s what was missing before, wasn’t it? That’s what was missing when your superiors shipped you to and fro, enacting policies not your own, speaking empty words and firing their bullets.”

Steve’s stomach surged and he slammed his fists on the table. “I’m not selling myself out just to win a seat, Pierce.”

“You know, I really wish you would make up your mind. You’re really confusing the constituency.”

“This is not a popularity contest, Pierce. You’re the one parading me around like some sideshow monkey in order to garner support for this ridiculous project. If you won’t put a stop to this, I will.”

Pierce nodded and in an instant, every scope in the room was trained on Steve’s head. Steve reeled around. Hillside guards were able to hide like radroaches and soon he was surrounded by a dozen men, all armed to the teeth and itching to fight. “There’s that paranoia again. Rumlow told me about the incident at the other crash site. If you can’t learn to open up and communicate, I don’t know if we can move forward with our professional relationship.”

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Steve asked. He unhitched his shield and everyone tensed at the clicking sound. “People’s lives are at stake!”

Pierce shook his head grimly. “This is no joke. This is progress.” The men threw a sack over Steve’s head. He wrenched an arm backward, colliding with three figures behind him. He heard their bodies crash over plates and glasses, sending shards scattering across the floor, but he was grossly outnumbered. Soon his arms and legs were bound in steel. He pulled and struggled against them, but a rain of blows and kicks bruised and beat his body. He collapsed to the floor under the weight of their punishment. A swift blow cracked against his skull and the world swerved and came to a halt. A pair of blue eyes watched the shrouded face fade into unconsciousness.

“Dispose of him,” Pierce said. “Do not fail me, Soldier.”

 

\+ + +

 

The man was a dead weight in his grip. The ridges of his metal arm realigned to bear the weight, adjusting with every steep step. It was nearly dark outside and the wasteland was still and lifeless. He could hear the heavy man’s shallow breathing beneath the burlap sack, but he paid it no mind. Only one impulse directed him, Pierce's voice. 

“Take care of him—make sure he’s never found,” the man in the gray suit commanded. He did not hesitate to obey; waves of grizzly pain lingered just beyond his nerves, compelling him to heed the suited man’s orders, lest they consume him whole.

He cleared the hair from his eyes. There was no one around for miles. If the baleful wildlife and searing sun could be trusted, the man in his grip would be nothing more than bones in a month or two, forgotten, just as his orders required. Endsville was nearby, but had to have been deserted by now—his scope had made sure of that. The man in the gray suit had said the settlement was better suited for military housing. With a few, well-placed bullets the man made it easy for the guards in black to move in. All according to plan.

He felt the unconscious man’s legs twitch and he stopped in his tracks. He swung around and readied a revolver, aiming it near the center of the sack. The man on the ground grew still once more and the metal arm shot out and seized him. This location was not far enough out—not ideal for concealment. The chance of discovery was still too great.

And so he trod through the desert, the prisoner’s boots dragging in the dirt behind him. The sky was wreathed in flame and he took a moment to gaze at it. The low lighting would help obscure the kill, but the flash would be seen for miles around. He had to find a cave or dugout, something to obfuscate the sound and the gunshot’s flare.

In another half of a mile, he had found a location. The cave was shallow, but deep enough to conceal the two of them. It was perched up on a high nest of rocks. The man hauled the prisoner over his left shoulder, wrapping his metal limb tightly about his waist. He would not be discovered here. The mere thought kept the surging pain at bay, so he continued up the hill. The Yao Guai would come roaming around, looking for meat and they would find his body and feast. They frequently settled in these hollows to warm the cloudless, frigid nights. The sun rimmed the horizon.

He leapt up the rocks, grabbing onto an outlying branch. He swung upwards and landed on his feet in spite of the extra weight. He threw the body down against the crag and it lay there, still and almost lifeless. He withdrew his gun and pointed the barrel in the center of the sack. A sharp whine squealed through his ears. No, that wouldn’t do. He needed to be certain the man was dead. His right arm shot out to remove the sack, to get a firm picture of the target’s head, to banish the high-pierced hiss in the back of his mind. His fingers curled over the burlap and removed it, letting it drift down the hill.

His eyes settled on the blonde hair. The man’s mouth bled from the corners and his eyes closed over deep bruises. His jaw was slack. Ragged breaths still resounded through the man’s chest. A new buzzing wracked the man’s mind as he raised his scoped magnum. The end of the barrel was pressed against the blonde man’s forehead. His finger twitched but did not pull the trigger. He placed his left hand over his right, squeezing tightly. Nothing came of it. Something told him to spare this man, strong and implacable, like an olfactory memory. Something burned beneath the surface, darting through his synapses and blurring his vision.

A reeling cry broke out of him, echoing down the hill. The sun seemed to pause in its descent, its last, dulcet rays illuminating the blonde man’s face, his cheeks and the soft swell of lips. The man’s arm was seized in trembling anger. He could not fire, against the biting, seething urge engraved into his senses, he could not pull the trigger. He could not comply with his master’s orders.

He lowered the gun and, fighting tooth-and-nail against every impulse, he holstered it. “Steve?” the man uttered, gritting against the pain invading his synapses, letting the hair fall into his eyes. He did not know where the name came from. His lips, palate and tongue seemed to form the name of their own accord, following a script only his nerves remembered. He choked. He stumbled over to the corner of the cave and evacuated his stomach, sour bile spilling over the rock. He turned back to the man and crouched down. Both hands gripped handfuls of ragged, greasy hair. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, gazing at the blonde man. He seemed only to be asleep in the twilight. He didn’t have much time. He winced at the acrid distress running up and down his left arm. He grasped it with his right hand tightly, keeping the tremors at bay.

When the metal arm calmed, he crouched down on all fours, creeping over toward the blond man. He reached out with his right hand and stroked his cheek. “Steve?” the assassin whispered. The blond figure stirred and the longhaired man sprang to his feet. He grabbed his gun and stumbled down the hill. His mind was abuzz with flashes of pain and images of the blond man. Here he was drinking coffee and there he held his hand, eyes languid and soft, there he stood over him, undoing his bindings and there he caressed cheek.

He tripped and fell into the dust. He looked back up at the hollow, but night had overtaken the wasteland and he could see the man no more. He sprinted into the dark, haunted.

 

\+ + +

 

“What have you got for me, Stark?” Fury asked. His mouth was a constant cloud of cigarette smoke.

Tony, fingers rattling wildly on his keyboard, nodded over toward his hard drive. “Thanks to Natasha’s excellent gathering skills, I’ve compiled enough clusters of data to put a face and name on our scavenger. Thought you’d like to be present for the big reveal.”

Fury leaned over and scanned the screen. “Vault-Tec. We knew that already.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “But not which vault. When they were building these babies all over the U.S. hundreds of years ago, they programmed several software systems—each one unique to the vault where it was installed.” The screens flashed as they parsed through the data. A fan was aimed at his computer towers, spreading heat and steam through the cramped quarters.

Tony bit his lip. The result blinked on the screen. “I knew it. Vault 40 at Hillside’s been doing a little independent research,” Tony looked to Fury and his face was grave with betrayal and deep in thought. A second item appeared on screen. Tony stared at it. “Vault 42? What?” Tony reset the parser and it ran through the data again, but it still returned two results. “I’ve never heard of Vault 42. Have you?”

Fury, shaking his head, put out a cigarette on the aluminum table. “We can worry about that later,” he grunted. “What was Hillside after?”

Tony sighed. “We’d need actual Vault-Tec computers to put that together,” he said, mournfully patting the side of his monitor. “This system's powerful, but it’s like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole." His eyes darted over the data again. "This still rubs me the wrong way—opaque secrecy tends to have that effect on me. And with Pierce's little reveal,” Tony scoffed, "I'm a bit on edge."

“I think it’s time that Pierce shows us his hand a little bit,” Fury said. The top of his spine was burning. Something had set him off. Over a decade of partnership seemed to dissolve in his mind. Pierce never kept secrets like this and it never behooved him to do so. S.H.I.E.L.D. was to be an open forum, the three of them had decided. Sharing information and resources was the only way to survive without resorting to unspeakable cruelty. And one of their number had been done away with for her obfuscation.

Those who hoarded in self-inflicted exile never lived long. Someone always had a greedy hunger to satisfy, and all the boxes of ammunition and Fancy Lad Snack Cakes in the world wouldn’t help if you were outnumbered.

Tony printed out the sites where Hillside had tampered and handed the list to Fury. Fury took his leave, thanking Stark for being a brain.  Tony nodded, his eyes wandering to the monolithic navigations system, loathing the fact that its scarier brother was now in the mix of things. Fury’s steps were heavy punctuations to his tumultuous thoughts.

As he exited the vault, Clint rushed by, mouth twisted into a frown and Fury knew better than to ask. The sun had begun its descent, casting the brahmin and their burdens in sharp, dramatic shadow. Phil stood clutching his clipboard in one hand, gazing at the horizon, eyes lost in worry and doubt. Groups of men and women worked tirelessly before him, loading the carts, tying knots and corralling the brahmin into a cogent group. Fury knew they would be off soon, and didn’t want Phil running behind schedule.

Pierce’s tent was empty and so he decided to wait, lighting up another smoke. After a three butts had littered the tent floor, Pierce appeared behind the canvas. Slowly he built up his stature. Surviving in the post-war world relies on knowing when a fight is about to break out. As soon as he saw Fury seated in his tent unannounced, he knew he had stepped into the ring. Pierceran a hand through his ash-blonde hair and sat across from Fury. “It appears my busy day has yet to conclude. What can I do for you, Fury?”

Fury paused. “Stark has made an interesting discovery.”

The man across from him shook his head. “If this is about the hardware, I can assure you that we will discuss this as Project Insight progresses at Yvonne's warehouse.”

“You’re damn right we’re gonna talk about it, Pierce, but this is another beast I want to handle.” He slid the page over to Pierce, who took it cautiously in his hands. His cold eyes scanned the coordinates and ruin sites.

“What am I looking at?” Pierce said, placing the page back on the table.

“You know what you’re looking at. Vault-Tec software has been mining intel from pre-war computers all across the wasteland. Stark says it’s been happening for the better part of a decade.”

Pierce clasped his hands together and smiled a bland smile. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“He says Vault 40 is involved. Spark your memory?” Fury drummed his fingers on the table, never breaking Pierce’s gaze. His eyes gave nothing away, did not waver or blink. They were impenetrable.

“I don’t see why that should be of note, Nick. Volunteers from every settlement in S.H.I.E.L.D. gather resources with no grave inquiry. Why should Vault 40's endeavors be any different?”

Fury smiled humorlessly. “Don’t cross hairs. You know why this is different. Selling a few handles of vodka or a box of bullets isn’t the same as hoarding valuable military intel behind your partner’s back.” Fury leaned forward. “We dismissed Peggy Carter for such transgressions.”

“Do not compare me to her, Fury. What she kept secret had much longer to germinate and grow than the things you accuse me of.” Pierce unclasped his hands, keeping his posture open and agreeable. “We still have time to discuss this, Fury, but it will have to come at another time. We can discuss these issues at the warehouse.” He checked his watch. “The caravans should be moving out soon. I’ll have the guards escort you there.” Then he paused. “I promise, we can sort this out peacefully. There is a reason for this, Fury, that I assure you.”

Fury mulled his options. A free offer of discussion was tempting. This was still the man he had built S.H.I.E.L.D. with, the man who authored the Concordat, who stood by him against the wasteland. Fury’s fingers grazed his eyepatch; he would have lost much more than that, had Pierce not intervened. He owed him the chance to explain himself.

“All right, Alexander. We will postpone this discussion until we set up camp at the warehouse.” He stood up and brushed his trench coat. “But let me make myself clear.” He loomed over Pierce. “I want a clear, succinct explanation of your reasoning. No diplomatic frills or bullshit.”

“No bullshit, you have my word,” Pierce said with a smile. Fury shook his hand.

 

\+ + +

 

Steve sputtered and coughed as he came to. It was dark. His mind was spinning and foggy. The landscape swayed in his vision. He stood, using the wall of the shallow cave as support. He remembered the ambush, how Pierce’s men restrained him and beat him to a pulp. He grabbed his flashlight and flicked it on. Its pathetic glow cast a small light in the sand. He was further up than he thought. The cave was situated up on a lone crag. There was no path leading up the hill, but he spotted a set of unfamiliar prints in the sand.

He shined his flashlight at the ground. The footprints circled wildly in the cave. Their placement was erratic and wild. Someone else had been there, watching over him, studying him. He wondered how he ended up this far out and why he was still breathing.

He let go of the wall, but lost his balance. He collapsed on his knees and waited for the unease to fade. He needed to get the word out. Pierce was on the verge of controlling the greatest weapon the wasteland had ever seen, of birthing a new, treacherous dominion that would see every man, woman and child enslaved and cowering in fear of his reach.

His stomach growled. His wounds were healing but he wouldn’t get far without food or water. In the distance, he could see the dull lights of another settlement, but the trek seemed near impossible in his condition. Thankfully, his shield was still intact, adding to the mystery of his survival.

Gathering twigs and dry grass, he built a small fire and gazed into it, trying to formulate a plan. There was no telling who would be loyal to Pierce and Fury. Coulson, with his cold, efficient logic, had already been taken into his fold. Clint was on his side, but Steve was now acutely aware of how interlopers were to be dealt with. His fists and jaw clenched.

Deeper in the cave, he found some roots and potatoes. He drew upon Clint’s advice, cooking them in the fire and grinding up the roots. It seemed so long ago now, Clint’s tutelage. Things seemed simpler then, even in light of the circumstances. He watched them cook near the flame. Steve’s hand grazed his cheek.

Memories of stifled breath returned to him. He remembered swirling images of darkness, the sensation of his boots dragging in the dirt his only anchor. He remembered the click of metal constantly overhead and low grunts bearing his weight and distant cries in a familiar timbre. The fire crackled.

 

\+ + +

 

The group was nearly to Endsville. The warehouse was not far off from that point. The evening was slowly slipping into night, the sky bleeding red. Fury marched on with a group of guards. They enclosed him in a protective square. Their heads were constantly scanning the horizon, on the lookout for SHIELD’s ghost. Something failed to click when Pierce made his promise, but he could not place it.

The guard to his right never let his fingers stray from the hilt of his machete. The black armor gleamed in the low light. They were a silent lot. Fury turned and looked east. He could just make out the high tower in the ruins of Fort Roxbury. When Fury looked east, he caught the eyes of another guard for the fifth time. At his rear, the man behind him coughed loudly. He heard faint clicking noises, the sound of the rifle’s safety flipping off.

The man in front of him coughed as well. As darkness settled in over the wasteland, their pace slowed to a crawl. The fields were barren and quiet. The man to his left coughed again into his sleeve. Another faint clicking.

They walked for another fifteen minutes in silence. The man in front of him held up a hand and they halted in their tracks. Fury dug in his heels. “No bullshit, huh?” Fury growled.

The man to his right swung the machete in a wide arc. Nick Fury caught his arm in mid-swing. He swung around and pitched the man blade-first into the guard on his left. The two collided and fell into the dust. He heard the revolver click and he ducked and rolled into a nearby ditch. Three loud bangs followed. Bullets planted themselves in the dirt near his feet.

Fury jumped behind a boulder, withdrawing his baretta and turning on the scope. He heard a scrabble. The two men raced down into the ditch and surrounded him on both sides. Fury sprang up. The machete’s edge skid against the rugged boulder, sending sparks flying into the dark. Two more bangs. He couldn’t return fire to the two men up on the road. He caught the blade in one hand and hissed at the sting of its edge in his palm. He kicked backward. The man’s helmet crashed into the rock with an audible clang.

He withdrew a serrated blade and stabbed between the joints in the armor, blood spilling into the sand. The man choked as he lost his balance and collapsed, holding his sides. Fury gave him a swift kick in the head and grabbed the machete. He swung around in a wide arc. The second man jumped backward, avoiding the blade. The two men above continued their covering fire. A sizzling rod jolted with electricity. The man swung once and Fury stepped back. The cattle prod had longer reach, and caught him in the ribs. Fury screamed and collapsed to his knees.

The man reared back, the steel prod swinging high over his head. Fury rose to one knee and caught his leg in a vice grip and forced him to the ground. The man’s head whiplashed he fell. Fury forced his other knee on the man’s chest. He unbuckled the helmet and broke the man’s nose with one solid punch. He was out cold.

Fury heard the remaining guards scuffling down the hill. They turned their scopes on him and fired. Fury was caught in the ribs twice and he went down near a large crack in the rock. The two men cautiously approached him. One kicked away the prod and the other retrieved the machete. Fury held his bleeding sides. His breathing was coming hard and painful. He heard the cocking of a gun. He swiftly reached inside his trench coat and felt for his stealthboy.

He flattened himself against the rock and activated it, vanishing from their sight. The men shot wildly at the rock, chipping away at it with their frustrated fire. Fury tucked himself in the large crack and covered his head. When they paused to reload, Fury grabbed a grenade and ripped out the safety pin. He rolled out of the crack, pushing up dust and revealing his location. The men started fire, but froze when they saw the grenade spiraling on the ground.

Fury covered as much ground as he could and dove forward. The grenade burst, sending the two men to the ground, bleeding from the chest and knees. A few stray shrapnel shards embedded themselves in Fury’s back, agitating the gunshot wounds.

He stood up and surveyed the wreckage. Four dead men lay in dirt. Fury held his sides. He took out a stimpack and pulled up his shirt. He pierced his ribcage with the needle and injected the medicine, but it barely took the edge off. He needed to find shelter and find someone who may have more medicine. He needed to warn everyone of Pierce’s treachery.

A small light glimmered on the horizon. A campfire. Fury, holding his sides, limped toward the flickering light, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t find a camp of Hillside minions or a wasteland junkie.

 

 


	10. What We Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a scene that is the tail-end of a torture sequence. Though none of the violence is described in that scenario, the remnants are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post. Thank you all so much for your patience and support of this AU! I hope you enjoy the chapter.

 

Joseph Bailey had been taught many things: pride in family, pragmatism, who stood above him and beneath him. He lay in the dirt, ears ringing, burning bushes collapsing into soot all around him. He had learned how to dress a wound, how to clean his gun, and how to shoot. His comrades lay still beside him, blood oozing into the dry soil beneath him. Everything was spinning and nausea and pain. His vision just barely aligned for him to get his bearings.

  
Nicholas Fury was a limping speck on the horizon. Joseph stifled his groan. He had learned how to obey orders. And what happened when things did not go according to plan. He clenched his teeth and slowly sat up, grinning through the pain. He was not long for this world, but he knew Pierce’s legacy was worth his life. He nearly toppled over as he stood up, but he anchored himself with the butt of his rifle.

  
He approached the corpses of his comrades. He dug in their satchels and scavenged a few stimpacks, nodding apologetically as he rolled the bodies on their backs. He injected a stimpack into his side, and the pain seeped away in degrees. The reprieve wouldn’t last long. If he could catch up to Fury and complete their mission, then they could rest with pride.

  
Joseph kept to the shadows as he followed his footsteps. Fury was in bad shape, but not as bad as Joseph, so the distance between them gradually stretched wider during his languishing pursuit. The moon was a blurry mass in the sky and the stars flickered in and out as his vision failed in fits and starts. Still, he dug in his heels and crept onward, never losing sight of his mark.

  
He didn’t remember much of Vault 40. He was born only a few years before their glorious return to the land above. Joseph knew now that he would die before the Orchestration reached its climax. He accepted it as readily as the hole in his guts and the ringing in hie ears. That's just how he was raised.

  
A stray root caught the tip of his boot and he pitched forward into a dirty puddle. The rattle of his splintered armor rang across the wastes. For a moment, he thought he would just lay there and simply perish, but Alexander Pierce’s face floated into the peripheries of his mind. The Orchestration must be brought to completion. Humanity could not be left to its own devices. It needed guidance and order, someone to lead. With his last ounces of strength he lifted himself out of the mud.

  
Fury was slowing down. He reached into his satchel, pulling out his last stimpack. He removed the cover with his teeth and plunged the needle into his neck. The canister hissed as it injected the medicine. His veins pulsed in his head and he again swung up to his feet, a little steadier than before. His vision swayed, but he again spotted Fury. He was wandering toward a flickering light near the horizon.

  
His mother would have been proud, he thought. She had grown up in Vault 40—an experience he had always envied of her. Often, when he was a child, she would tell him stories about Vault 40. She, along with her large extended family, led a life of quiet camaraderie and orderly isolation, things hard to bring to pass in the wasteland. It fell on Joseph’s generation in the world to bring order, with the help of Overseer Pierce. He was wise in many things. Even in his youth, when he rose to the role of Vault Overseer at the tender age of seventeen, he exhibited a sharp mind and firm hand. He stumbled closer. Fury was almost to the campfire.

  
When at last Joseph approached the crackling blaze, his eyes widened in shock. This wasn’t right—not one, but two marks were still living. Something had gone terribly wrong. He was ready to fight to the death with Fury, to embed his stinger and perish with him, but he would never be able to handle them both. His innards wound up tight. He commanded himself to ignore the searing pain.

  
He turned on his heels. He needed to get word to Pierce and his Hydra brethren. Anything to aid The Orchestration. He tripped again. He spat the dirt out and wiped his mouth and he began a ragged jog, pain splintering his limbs.

 

\+ + +

 

Steve did not know where to turn. Hillsiders had expanded into S.H.I.E.L.D. widely and efficiently, almost beneath everyone’s notice. It was as if they signed their own sovereignty away on the S.H.I.E.L.D. Concordat. The guards in black could be found in every corner. No doubt they knew of Pierce’s intention: that Steve and any of his associates were to be done away with. Steve rubbed his eyes. No doubt Natasha and Clint would soon be dealt with in the same manner he had been.

  
It was just like before the Great War. Every day, Steve and Bucky experienced demonstrations of deep-seated paranoia and mistrust: neighbor accusing neighbor of espionage, holding false witness, ever fearful of their foes across the Pacific and desperate to distract the crosshairs trained on their heads. It was a quiet, insidious chaos, lurking beneath the surface of American complacency.

  
He could not forget those who fought against it, the crowds of protestors and brave civilians. His eyes studied the mysterious footprints in the cave, how they wandered to and fro, as if directed by a fraying mind, perhaps another contemplating his own irrational abeyance, someone ready to fight. Seeing them gave him hope. Someone was seeing through Pierce’s madness. He refused to curl up and surrender.

  
A twig snapped below. Steve jumped up, readying his shield. He squinted in the dark past the fire’s glow. A tall figure lumbered up the rock, his trench coat dragging over them in tatters. Each hand left dark splotches on the rock as the figure ascended. Soon the soft light danced across Nick Fury’s face. Blood streaked down his face.

  
“Nick! My god,” Steve gasped. He put down his shield and grasped Nick’s waiting hand. Fury swirled around and smothered the campfire under his trench coat and they were enveloped in thick darkness.

  
Fury looked him up and down. “I see you’ve had a rough go of it, Rogers,” Fury said. “That scheming bastard Pierce is thorough, isn’t he?”  
Fury hissed as he squatted down to sit. Steve’s hands helped him retain his balance and guided him slowly to the ground. “Nick, what the hell happened?”

  
“Same thing that happened to you, I reckon,” he managed. “The Hillside guards fuckin’ cornered me on the way to the warehouse. I don’t think they wanted my caps, either.”

  
Steve dug in his coat and retrieved a stimpack. He handed it to Fury and soon the medicine was flowing in his veins. His breathing came easier. “We have to get you to a doctor,” Steve said. “The bleeding isn’t slowing down.”

The neck of Steve’s shirt was balled up in Fury’s fist in an instant. “I am not going to any doctor, Rogers. No one can be trusted. Not Pierce, not his men, not any man, woman and child that he has come into contact with, do you hear me?”

  
Steve removed Fury’s hand. “Then who does that leave?”

  
“Not a whole fuckin’ lot,” Fury coughed. He winced and groaned as he examined the red in his spit.

  
Steve shook his head. He stood up and adhered his shield to his back. He clutched one sleeve in hand and tore it off, ripping it into wide strips. Nick lifted his shirt. Steve sprayed the grisly wound and tightly wrapped the fabric about his torso.

  
“Pierce won’t be safe for long. I’m going to expose him—get all of this madness under control. Project Insight. I have to put an end to it.” He withdrew a backup handgun and offered it to Fury. “But first we have to get help for you—I can’t do this alone.”

  
Fury swiped the gun from Steve, wincing at the weight traveling from his elbow to his ribcage. “It’s going to be dicey. They won’t like the sight of someone who should be dead,” Fury said. He managed a small grin in spite of the pain. “You’re a mad man, did I ever tell you that?” Fury winced as he lay down in the shadow.

  
“Takes one to know one,” Steve said, smiling softly.

  
Never before had Steve seen the man so exposed. High up on his hill in Sanctuary, Fury was more akin to an aloof deity in his silent ministrations, but in the dark cave, blood still streaming as he bandaged his wounds, bloodied and battered, Steve for the first time was able to glimpse at his raw scrap and endurance—his humanity. He admired the man. Getting him the help he needed would be well worth the risk. Steve knew the coordinates of each town and Endsville wouldn’t be far off from here. Once he was taken care of, they’d have more time to form a plan of attack.

  
“There will be others, Fury. Ones who will believe us—support us.” A scene of picket signs and cries flooded his mind. “There are always people willing to fight. Someone had to have spared me.” Fury nodded solemnly. Steve bounded down the rocks and sped to Endsville, none-the-wiser of Joseph’s footsteps in the sand.

  
“Just hang on, I’ll be back with help as soon as I can,” Steve said. He bounded down the rocks and sprinted off. Fury removed himself to a quiet, dark corner of the cave, snapping awake intermittently when his eyelids began to droop.

 

\+ + +

 

The moon was bright. Phil rocked back and forth on his rusted steel cart, his normally buzzing mind quiet in contemplation. The brahmin called out to one another in low bellows and the sound of travel and footsteps littered the wasteland. Their driver kept the brahmin going steadily, keeping slow enough for the guards in black to keep pace. Phil sat near the navigations system. It seemed to radiate a light of its own in the night. It sent shivers down his spine. Clint had gone back to Sanctuary. He had shaken off Phil’s hand and run off.

  
Then he was alone with his thoughts and guilt, trying to piece together Clint’s reaction. “So after everything Rogers has told you...the riots and outrage…you’re just going to go along with this? Just like that? That’s not the Phil I know,” Clint had said to him. Phil had no reply.

  
Seeing Steve run off, face skewed with disappointment and rage, gave cause for his faith in Project Insight to quake. Suddenly he was dreading its shadow. He looked around. Their cart toiled onward, one of many, like a great tide. Wherever it would lead them, surely it was too monstrous, too insurmountable to stop now, like a great avalanche. He pinched his brow.

  
He knew having the vertibird pilot and target on its own would be the most efficient. He knew that. What he had failed to grasp was Clint’s outrage. Phil had done this all for him, for every slave trapped in the ceaseless flow of trade and pain. He wanted to make Clint feel safe, to put an end to his nightmares and night terrors.

  
“Penny for your thoughts,” Natasha asked quietly from across the cart. They were near the center of the caravan. She had one leg over the other as she sharpened her knife.

  
Phil frowned. “Are we doing the right thing? It all just…sounded so crazy when Steve repeated it out loud.”

  
“He has a way with words, doesn’t he?” She paused, casting a cold gaze on segments of the vertibird. “There might be something to it.”  
Phil leaned forward and sighed. “So you agree with him?”

  
She sighed. “Nothing is set in stone, Phil. We still have time to put everything in its place this out before she goes up.” She held her knife in the light and it glinted in the dim light.

  
“We do. I just hope Steve does.” His brows furrowed. “I need to tell him that when he comes back. That is, if he and Clint still feel like speaking to any of us after this.”

  
Natasha clutched his knee. “Of course Clint will. He wouldn’t abandon you. He’s stubborn, I’ll give you that, but he’s loyal too. You know that.”

  
“Loyal,” Phil started, the edges of his mouth perking up, mostly at his own blind following and lack of indignation. “It just felt so natural going along Fury and Pierce’s plan—I hardly even thought about the implications until tonight. Foolish.” He fell quiet. The woman across from him was still. Something weighed on her as well, but Phil knew he wouldn’t be able to elicit an answer.

  
She had always been a mystery. Even all those years ago, when Clint and he discovered her alone in the wastes, with only a bloody dagger in her small hands and a piercing stare, she was a mystery. He had asked after her family several times since then, each inquiry punctuated with a slammed door or deafening silence. Eventually, they had stopped asking and accepted her willful silence. Though she never called Phil “father,” he knew that she thought of them as family.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Natasha,” her eyebrows perked up, “why did you lend your support to all of this?”

  
She slid sheathed her blade. “Project Insight was moving forward with or without my input. Anyone could see that. I guess in the end, Steve and I want the same thing: the chance to have our voices heard and a little control over the outcome. A chance to get our bearings. I’d rather be in on this than on the other side of the fence.”

  
Phil stroked his chin. “Pragmatic as always, Romanov.” He knew she wasn’t telling the whole story, but could never pinpoint what remained hidden. It was one of her many talents. She gave just enough slack to satisfy your curiosity, but never loosened her tongue altogether.

  
“I get it from my mother,” Natasha said, lowering her gaze. “You would have liked her, Phil.”

  
Phil nodded and smiled. He knew he would have.

 

\+ + +

 

Alexander cracked his knuckles, blood smearing across his skin. A lone bulb above cast sharp shadows and harsh light. His jacket was hung neatly in the corner. Bloodstains were such a pain to remove. He stepped slowly across the room, shoe heels clicking on the cement.  
“Order Above All,” he said. His tone was bland but firm. The brunt of the punishment had concluded. He knew bloodied acquiescence would be soon to follow.

  
A pair of chains rattled in the corner. Brock Rumlow’s headed sagged up and down. His cheeks were deep purples and greens, swelling out of proportion. He spat a wad of spit and mucous, clearing his mouth and readying himself to speak.

  
“Now I want you to repeat your errors,” Alexander said calmly. “This will have been for nothing if you cannot name them. Now list them.” Alexander began rolling down his shirtsleeves, careful to avoid the cuts on his knuckles.

  
Brock spat again, squinting his bloated eyes to clear away his tears. They rolled down the swollen peaks and valleys of his cheeks, spilling onto the cement floor. “I-I compromised Project Insight.” he drew a deep ragged breath. “I let envy stand in the way.”

  
“And?”

  
Rumlow frowned. “I endangered components for the prototype in the basin...on our last expedition.” He hacked and coughed, blood mingling with his spit. “Could have put all of this effort and planning to waste.” His voice was low and somber. Sweat drenched his stained t-shirt in a rosy ring. Tears beckoned and he let them fall as a demonstration of his repentance. “I’m sorry.”

  
Alexander buttoned the top button of his shirt. He pulled his tie off the hook near his bedroom door and tightened it around his neck. He was satisfied, but not because of the wreck before him—Brock’s submission was easily gained. It was Nicholas Fury's end that made him smile. His long-time collaborator was at last removed from the picture. Steve had infected him somehow. Something about his unwavering sense of duty and naïve optimism had seeped into Fury. At least his timing was good. He began seeing it in Coulson as well, but when asked to jump, Coulson always asked, “How high?” He would do as a temporary substitute until another could be found.

  
Taking Brock’s face within his hands, he slowly turned him from side to side, assessing the damage. “I really hate doing this, Brock.” He grabbed a nearby rag and started dabbing gingerly Brock’s wounds. “It reflects badly on me.”

  
Brock stared at him with big searching eyes. “How?” He hated when Pierce spoke that way, when he made Pierce feel inadequate, partially because he knew what followed.

  
“I suppose any adoptive parent might feel the same way, having their efforts utterly depleted by savage genes.” Alexander screwed his mouth in consternation. “I suppose it will be just as taxing removing the savagery from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s wastelanders,” Alexander said. “But we will persevere.”

  
“I agree, sir,” Brock managed. He reveled at Pierce’s touch, whimpering softly as his rough hands mended his face. It was true, sometimes his own emotions got the better of him, even when so much was on the line: family, order and pride. At the very least, Rogers was out of the picture as well, the bastard. He would have to be good—good for Pierce, good for the new wasteland, good for his father.

  
“I still remember when I found you, you poor thing,” Alexander nearly whispered. He was always quiet when lost in memory. “You were all alone, bawling and crying, snot running down your nose, tears long since dried up.

  
“Your parents were nearby, and their killer nearer.” With his free hand, Brock felt the long, trailing scar through Pierce’s trousers. “But, in the end, that deathclaw did you a huge service. You will ultimately survive, barring any new error and folly, whereas you might have been eliminated in accordance with Ancestor Zola’s Law.”

  
“Yes. Yes sir, I would have,” Brock mumbled. His skin was still throbbing and blood still seeped from his face and lips. He would have died out there, but Pierce thought him good enough to save, seemingly against every single fiber in his being. He cursed his folly and foolishness. Brock shook his head softly. “Thank you, father. Thank you,” he cried. Alexander hushed him and loosened his chains. He fell to the floor in a pile.

  
Alexander helped him to a cot nearby and Brock collapsed into it, bleeding and exhausted, murmuring wild, delirious thanks. His eyes were still wide and dark and adoring and loyal. He shut off the light and left the room, locking it behind him. He picked up a roll of gauze and wrapped it around his knuckles.

  
Soon as he was finished, a sharp rapping came at the front door. He sighed in aggravation and answered. Mosby and Teller were on his stoop, arms raised in salute. “Agent Bailey is here, Director Pierce. He has updates on his operation.”

  
He nodded silently and they led him to the infirmary. It was still dim out, but quieter, so he was careful to lower his voice once Dr. Sampson led him past the empty rooms to the last compartment on the right. Alexander sighed when he saw Bailey laid out on the table.  
His breath was shallow and labored. He had a wild, panicked look in his eye and something important to report. He was covered in blood and was slowly staining the mattress beneath him. Alexander pulled up a chair and sat. “Report.”

  
“Fu-Fury was better armed than we expected,” Bailey wheezed. “He took out Jones, Perry and Watson…all of them are dead.”

  
“Where is Fury now? Will he succumb to his wounds?” Alexander sat on pins and needles. His skin seemed to close in on him, suffocating him in alarm. He knew the answer to his own question, but he was not prepared for what came next.

  
“Tracked him…to a camp…someone else was there to receive him. Steve Rogers—he’s alive. He and Fury both,” Bailey said, coughing up blood. “We have failed you.”

  
Alexander was still. He unlatched his holster. “Where were they stationed?”

  
“About three kilometers from Endsville…in a cave near the crags. Ancestors forgive me,” Bailey said. He watched Alexander’s hand move to his hip. He knew what was to transpire, what happened to those who failed the family. He steeled himself for death, but was not prepared for what followed.

  
“You have done us a great service, Joseph Bailey. Without this warning, our control may have faltered. You, however, persevered for the sake of The Orchestration. My commendations.” Alexander cocked his pistol. “You have made our family proud.” Bailey accepted the bullet between his eyes. He slumped in his bed and breathed his last. Pierce re-holstered his weapon and slowly walked out. There was more to be done, so much more.

 

\+ + +

 

Steve reached Endsville in record time. All but a few lamps illuminated the gate, but there was no mistaking a S.H.I.E.L.D. settlement. The walls’ heartiness matched the heights of the walls of Sanctuary. He stopped at the gate, catching his breath. He raised a fist and slammed it on the doors. He heard a faint scuffle in the sniper’s nest and soon the door was opened.

  
He spotted the clinic immediately and ran toward it. The town was silent all around him. His quick raps on the door were soon met by a diminutive woman of forty-odd years. She squinted in the dark and coughed into her sleeve. “What is it? Speak up!” she yapped. A flickering lamp cast her face in shadow.

  
“I have an emergency. Someone is severely injured and needs attention immediately.”

  
“Well?” she said, crossing her arms, “Where is he?”

  
“He’s in a cave a few klicks east of here. He doesn’t have much time.”

  
She leaned in close and readjusted her glasses. “Steve Rogers? In the flesh?” She hung on the doorframe and cast a glance over both of his shoulders. “Come in. I’ll need to gather some supplies. You can wait in the kitchen while I prepare.”

  
He slid in beside her and wiped his boots on the decaying mat. He followed the stained, decrepit rug into the kitchen and sat down. His leg jiggled endlessly as her heard her rummage about the room adjacent. Only the sound of his heartbeat filled the room. It began its rounds, growing steadily in his ears, churning his bloodstream.

 

\+ + +

 

“It looks like we’re almost there,” Phil said. “It will be nice to have a warm cot, won’t it?

  
“Yes, it will,” Natasha replied absentmindedly. She saw no sign of Rogers during their trek, no campfires or the moon on his shield. She had always remonstrated with him about his shield and its constant polish. It made him a target, as if he weren’t one already. In spite of her concern, she decided to give it until tomorrow to send out feelers. He may have gone home to Sanctuary with Clint. She couldn’t afford to journey alone at this time of night.

  
Endsville emerged into view. It had always been a quiet hamlet in the wasteland, though it was more of a landfill than a town. The people there seemed happy, if a little bored, lending a different sort of austerity to its name—Endsville, the town to go when excitement and hope had fled from your life. Still, they had good scrap-supplies and the lodging was good as long as you didn’t mind the smell. They had been quiet lately on the airwaves, though with the recent trouble, she supposed that it was more an issue of survival and keeping a low profile.

  
Their cart suddenly jolted to a stop. The brahmin conveying them bellowed in surprise. Natasha jumped up to the front of the cart, standing on the feet. Phil whipped out his binoculars and tossed them to her. She looked through their lenses. Reflected in the surrounding steel grating and glass, she spotted the flashes of rapid gunfire. She and Coulson pitched themselves over the front of the cart when the clap of gunfire reached their ears.

“Get to Endsville and report to me over the two-way,” Phil shouted, handing her a radio. “I’ll keep abreast of town.”

  
“Got it,” she said, loading her silenced pistol. She nearly began her sprint, but a shoulder on her hand stopped her.

  
“Be careful. It may be our assassin,” Phil said, his gaze meeting hers. She nodded and sprinted off. Phil loaded his rifle. He shouted for the caravan to stop. They were about a mile out, so he commanded all the Hillside guards to duck and cover.

  
“Our assassin has shown himself to be a capable marksman, don’t make yourself a target,” Phil announced. He made sure his two radios were secured and then he ran out into the wasteland, hoping to intercept their killer.

 

\+ + +

 

Soft static buzzed through the wall, a ham radio by the sound of it. The doctor murmured something into the receiver, but Steve could not make it out. It was still quiet. He looked Tony’s watch strapped on his wrist. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes have passed since his arrival.

  
Having been trained in field medicine, he knew that time was essential to any case, and yet the doctor had yet to return with her supplies. The doctor did not have a bag at the ready. That wasn’t right.

  
In the stark silence, he heard the soft click of a rifle. Everything paused for one eternal second. Before he knew it, adrenaline poured into his system and readied him to fight. He thrust back in his seat and kicked up the table. A shotgun blast tore through the wood, sending splinters into all corners of the room. “AH! The traitor’s got some fight in him yet!” the doctor shouted. She pumped her shotgun and turned the corner.

  
He rolled back, shield at the ready. In the blink of an eye, the glass windows shattered and a hail of gunfire cracked the linoleum, disintegrating the glass bottles near the window, shredding the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall. He jerked back, opening the cabinet beneath the sink, ripping off one of the doors in the process.

  
“Bingo.” He reached back and grabbed a box of Abraxo cleaning-detergent. He remembered the headline so clearly, “Wife Immolates Infidel with Cleaning Commodity.” He waited for the gunfire to cease and half a second more. He stood up and pitched the cleaner toward the source of the fire. Another assault began. Bullets ripped through the paper box and it ignited in flames. He heard cries of panic and pain roar up as the flames sent screaming shadows across the kitchen wall.

The doctor ran past the doorway. Steve balled up behind his shield and rolled, grabbing the loose cabinet door and flinging it forward mid-tumble. He heard it crack sharply against her ankle. He dove forward and seized her by the leg and jerked her back.

  
“I knew it! I knew it! You’re nothing but a cold-blooded killer!” she squealed.

  
“What the are you talking about?” Steve shouted.

  
“You know damn well, what I’m talking about,” she shot back. “Alexander Pierce just sent word to every town in S.H.I.E.L.D. You murdered Nicholas Fury in cold blood! I knew it! You’re the killer that’s been terrorizing us all!”

  
Steve opened his mouth to argue, but heavy boots landed against the front door, sending ruptures down the wood’s grain. With a swift blow, he knocked her out cold. He ran toward the back of the makeshift infirmary, kicking in the backdoor.

  
The two guards outside were Hillside men, telling from the armor. He had no time to think, as another bullet grazed his thigh. Amateur shot. He started ducking between small shacks and building, always two steps ahead of the gunfire.

  
His lungs were on fire. He ran in a wide curve about Endsville’s borders, but nothing but high walls of insurmountable scrap met him at every corner. He could try leaping, but he could not risk getting caught in a nest of jagged pipes and glass on the other side. Soon he found a ladder and jumped up three rungs at a time. Bullets grazed harmlessly off the back of his shield.

  
Steve was on the upper ramps. A dozen people armed to the teeth poured from the safe houses opposite him. They scrambled up the ramps, charging for him from all directions. He took a look behind him and somersaulted off the ledge, down below on the side far from the gates.

  
He rolled in the dust and sprang to his feet. All around him was the clicking of barrels and pinheads. He stood, hands held high in the air. He was again surrounded on all sides. A taller figure stepped forward from among them, a sick, satisfied sneer on his face.

  
“On the authority of Alexander Pierce and the late Nicholas Fury, we stand ready to execute traitor Steve Rogers,” the tall figure said.  
“I did not murder Nicholas Fury!” Steve shouted.

  
“Quiet. We have several eyewitnesses to your crime. You sought to usurp a position on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security council, and so attempted to free up a seat for yourself. How does the accused testify?” the tall figure said grandly.

  
Steve sneered. “You call this a trial?”

  
“We are past trials, Rogers.” The gun barrels all around him trained on his head.

  
“Rogers! Heads-up!” a voice shouted from behind a corrugated wall.

  
His eyes glanced up and he spotted Natasha’s signature stun grenade in the dim light. His eyes squinted shut and he plugged his ears. He felt the shell rattle at his feet and soon a bright piercing light penetrated his lids. The men cried as the blast blinded them. They deafly felt around, disoriented and dazed. Some collapsed to all fours, hand searching for their weapons.

  
Natasha, bless her, was at his side in an instant. She grabbed his arm and they hastened off. “You know where Fury is. Take me to him,” she said in between breaths. Always the perceptive one.

  
“Of course.”

  
Endsville was becoming smaller and smaller by the second. A chorus of shouts and sharp commands rang out behind them. They were almost in the clear when a last figure leapt out from the brush. He held a high-caliber rifle, aiming it at Steve’s chest.

  
“Stop right there,” Phil commanded. “Don’t move.”

  
“Phil…” Steve said.

  
“Phil, what are you doing?” Natasha hissed.

  
Coulson’s jaw tightened. “I’ve heard the report, Rogers. They said you murdered Nicholas Fury. He was supposed to have arrived in Endsville before us. He never showed.”

  
“I know what they told you,” Steve said. “None of it is true.”

  
“There were eyewitnesses,” Phil asserted. “They say you shot him down and hid the body.”

  
“Are you going to believe Pierce’s men?” Natasha demanded. She stepped forward, between Phil and Steve. “They just tried his life. And mine."

  
Phil sighed, but his grip was still tight. “I didn’t get this far in life by trusting everyone I’ve ever met, but I trusted Nick.” He jabbed the rifle toward them. “He was a friend of mine,” he said, voice wavering.

  
“We are trying to help him, Phil,” Steve said. “I know where he is. If we get to him, he can still be saved.” He emerged from behind Natasha and held out a hand, ungloved. “We can work through this. I just need you to trust me.” His hand didn’t waver, nor his gaze.

  
Phil stood motionless. His eyes darted between Steve’s and Natasha’s. He took a deep breath and lowered his rifle. His muscles visibly tensed, but neither made a move on his life. He remembered his crates and crates of comic books, action figures and memorabilia, all emblazoned with his face and the stars and stripes.

  
He took Steve’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Bring him back alive, Rogers. I'm counting on you.”

  
Natasha brushed Phil’s shoulder with an open palm. “Thank you, Phil.”

  
He smiled softly and briefly. “Go on. There can’t be much time. I’ll stall them here, tell them you were too fast for me. Who knows, you might need someone on the inside.”

  
“I think we will,” Natasha said. She took his other hand too. “You won’t regret this. We will find answers, Phil.”

  
Steve saluted Phil. “Thank you, Phil.”

  
“What part of ‘go on’ don’t you understand?” Phil said.

  
They nodded to each other then the duo sped off. Phil looked back toward Endsville. The long train of carts, trolleys and old autos was pulling into town and fires were doused with water, sending smoke pouring into the starless night.

 

\+ + +

 

They found the cave empty. The campfire had been extinguished. Steve spotted the shuffling marks in the sand, but no sign of where Fury had gone. “Damn it,” Steve said. “Any clues on where he went?”

  
“Not back to Sanctuary, that much is certain,” Natasha said. “But he’s resourceful, he has a back-up plan. I know it.” She didn’t sound like herself. She lacked the air of authority that usually hung over her words. She turned and nimbly climbed down the rocks, following the blood drops, free hand balled in a fist. “We’ll need to figure out where to lay low. We’re fugitives now,” she said solemnly.

  
Steve reached in his pocket and held out a set of keys. “It’s a long-shot, but it’s better than nothing.”

 

\+ + +

Sam woke up early, as usual. He had never been a heavy sleeper, not after a few bandits nearly made off with his cattle and his life when he was in his teens. He tallied his remaining supplies; unfortunately, the snack cakes dried up faster than he had anticipated. He would head back into town, he thought. He hoped Cheryl had gotten more in stock, but he knew that was unlikely, given the current state of affairs.

  
He grabbed the pail by the door, ready for another day of cattle rearing and solitude. It wasn’t the most exciting, but in a world where excitement could mean death, Sam was okay with that. He had more than his fair share of brushes with death and he would likely see more. No use in seeking thrills, his ma always used to say.

  
Sam wandered to and fro inside their fence, greeting each brahmin by name. He watered the cattle and refilled their troughs. He checked on Earl, the young calf; he was a heedless runt, but Sam couldn’t help but smile at his aborted bucks and brawling. Shame what happened to Shotgun. 

He would have to produce more feed for them as well. Maybe he’d make another trek to Interstate, or maybe go as far as Hillside to do some trading. It had been awhile since he traveled up their way, so maybe he could call on some old acquaintances to give him a place to rest.

  
Even at dawn, the sun was piercing. He reached for his breast pocket and found it empty. When he reached his front door, he found it unlocked. He let it creak open slowly. He reached for the handle of his revolver and ventured in slowly. A chair skidded across the floor. He jumped and dove for cover.

  
“Sam! Sam, it’s okay. It’s us!” Steve said.

  
Sam emerged from behind the bookshelf slowly. His mouth was ajar as he looked Steve up and down; his coat was shredded and stained with blood, a few bruises still made themselves known in hues of sickly yellow and green, his normally neat hair was tussled, sticking out in nearly all directions. They had a hell of a night that much was certain.

  
“Steve! Natasha! What the hell happened to you?”

  
“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Natasha said.

  
“It’s a long story,” Steve sighed.

 

\+ + +

 

“Well, we aren’t going to get anything done without some rest,” Sam said. “Then we can start kicking some ass.”

  
“Assuming we form a cogent plan,” Natasha said.

  
“But Sam,” Steve started. Sam held up an open palm.

  
“We gotta get those cuts disinfected and bandaged up. Then you need a good six hours sleep at least.” Sam readied an extra, creaky cot and set it near the dining area of the small structure. Steve stripped off his jacket and undershirt and inspected his skin for marks and lesions. Natasha was ready nearby with a packet of disinfectant and some healing powder she brewed up with broc flowers and xander root from Sam’s small garden.

  
Luckily, the journey met them with few adversaries, save a few radscorpions and a particularly petulant Robo-Brain, so she managed to save some medicine. She applied little to Steve; the cuts and burns seemed to be healing before her eyes.

  
Soon, Steve was packing up supplies generously provided by Sam into a few spare rucksacks. Sam was at the sink, readying a big meal. Natasha excused herself. Her steps were slow. Sam nodded toward her from the sink and Steve followed her onto the patio. The sun was in descent, but still she hid in the shadows, tying her red hair into a low bun. Steve stood nearby for a bit and joined her in the dark. She looked toward him, eyes large and wet, betraying sentiment Steve had never encountered in the woman.

  
She was quiet for a long time. She trailed a finger in the dirt aimlessly.

  
“What’s on your mind?” Steve asked.

  
“Phil asked me last night, why I supported the project,” She tightened her grip. “I told him that I wanted what you did: a chance to change the outcome of the inevitable, to steer Project Insight.”

  
“Was that true?”

  
“Partially,” she turned toward him. “I guess I never told you. Funny what I can’t find time for.”

  
“Told me what?” Steve asked.

  
“The debt I owe. To Phil and Clint.” She breathed in deep.

  
“My mother and I needed to move. The roads were more dangerous then, before the S.H.I.E.L.D. Concordat was signed by all the surrounding settlements. Raiders and bandits were more common back then. The roads were bad.

  
“I didn’t really know what was going on at the time, but my mother said it wasn’t safe for us at home anymore and that we needed to find another place to live. I followed her.” She buried her head in her knees and her words came muffled.

  
“She had publicly spoken out against the Overseer of our vault. My friends didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Everyone started ignoring us all of a sudden: the neighbors, the people in the cafeteria, the doctors and guards.

  
“Then, one night, I remember loud banging on our compartment’s door. It was really late. Mother answered the door with a gun in her hand. She found a dead cat, gutted and hung outside. She packed a single bag for both of us and led us out.”

  
“Out?”

  
“Out of Vault 40. Out into the wasteland." She sighed and ran her fingers through the handful stray locks still stuck to her forehead. She managed to scrounge up enough extra rations to bribe the technicians near the gate. "They were glad to see us gone.”

  
Steve froze. Natasha withdrew her face from her knees. Not a single tear had been shed and Steve knew they had long since dried out. He had no response, but to put his arm over her shoulder and hold her tight. She continued.

  
“Later on, when we were far from Vault 40—Hillside didn’t exist back then—we set up camp somewhere we wouldn’t be seen. I remember lying down to go to sleep, cold and afraid. A loud noise woke me up and mother was dead, a single bullet hole through her chest.”

  
“Natasha…I’m—”

  
“Don’t say you’re sorry. You had nothing to do with it.” She paused. “Phil and Clint found me out here. I survived off of roasted geckos and a dirty stream. Clint couldn’t have been much more than twenty,” she mused. "It's funny how Phil kept running into people like us."

  
She gently removed his arm from her shoulder and stood up. She brushed the dust from her pants and took another deep breath. “I’ve been tracking her killer ever since.” She lowered her gaze. “The man with the metal arm. That time he tried sabotaging the navigation systems…it wasn’t my first encounter with him.”

  
Steve stood up. “When did you see him?"

 

Natasha paused. She lifted up her shirt. An ugly scar spread across her lower abdomen near her hip. “.308 rounds. Hollow tip. Never seen those in at any gun dealers and never with any raiders or slavers. Only he uses them.”

  
“And your mother…”

  
“.308. Right through the heart,” she wiped her eyes. “I knew from then on that I needed to get close to Vault 40, any way I could manage. Project Insight was my chance. I had to take it.”

  
“Why didn’t you tell anyone? If he can be identified so easily, why keep him a secret from Fury and Coulson?”

  
“He’s a ghost, a myth that the children in Vault 40 used to tell one another. We called him vesnii soldat, ‘The Winter Soldier.’ Anyone can make a living killing out here. Fury would have brushed it aside, saying that he can’t go after ghost stories. It wasn’t until the recent chain of executions that he took notice.”

  
She paused, eyes distant and searching. “I’ve known about his existence for a long time. A mysterious had been going out into the wasteland, exploring and scouting for Vault 40, though the Overseer never mentioned any of it. None of us dared to ask. But occasionally, we all heard the vault doors open and shut. Not many were allowed out back then, but I know the Winter Soldier was working with the Overseer, somehow. There’s truth to every fairytale.”

  
Steve thought long and hard. The sun began to dip below the horizon. “And he will be after us next. Anyone who goes against Vault 40 doesn’t live long.” Natasha turned to him. "Are you ready for some answers?" A small smile broke out on her lips. She nodded.

  
“Sounds like we’re starting to form a plan,” Sam said above them. “But first, dinner’s ready.”

  
Their meal was quiet and somber, still no word from Fury and no sign from any Hillside forces. They sat on pins and needles as if waiting for a bomb to drop. They ate grilled mantis legs and ears of corn, with small glasses of warm Nuka-Cola. “This is really good, Sam, thank you,” Steve said.

  
“Yes, thank you,” Natasha added.

  
“It’s no problem at all, really,” Sam chuckled. “Haven’t had human company since I was booted from my house in Sanctuary. It does something to a man, isolation.” Steve frowned softly and took another bite.

 

\+ + +

 

He woke later than he would have liked the next morning. Steve had little notion of how much sleep he had missed, but his super-soldier stamina and metabolism required much more sleep than he had managed, so he was thankful for Sam's couch. He yawned and stretched, glad that the night passed without incident. He looked toward Natasha, who slept nearby. He regretted his initial paranoia, all brought upon by her Russian name. If anyone were to be allied with him against the rising threat of Vault 40, he was thankful it was her.

  
He packed up a few rucksacks. They spoke late last night about potential plans. Bringing together a militia was out of the picture. Any such formation would be swiftly and brutally subjugated, Steve had said. Their first priority was to bring down Project Insight, but first they needed an in, a way to ambush Hillside’s forces at the warehouse.

  
Dull thuds sounded at Sam’s front door in a constant, dull beat. Steve perked up and grabbed his shield. Sweat began to form on his forehead and neck. Sam was nearby in a blink of an eye. Steve held a finger to his lips and slowly approached the door, shield ready to strike. He paused for a moment. He gripped the handle and jerked it open.

  
A battered eyebot floated into the room and petered out near the cracked coffee table. Its lights were cracked and sparking and its front grate hung pathetically from two screws. Natasha appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and questioning. The speaker sputtered on, cutting in and out. Steve reached out and tapped the side and the eyebot burst into life.

“Testing, testing. 1, 2, 3,” Tony's voice started. "If this recording has reached you, Steve, by way of the tracking device in my father's watch, then congratulations, you're alive! What I'm about to tell you may come as no surprise, but let me be the first to clarify the following," Tony cleared his throat. "Things have officially gone to shit."

 


	11. It Hits the Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support and comments! I realize I am a bit late (again), so here is a long chapter for your edification.

  

“Sir, two men are here to see you,” JARVIS informed Tony.

Tony grabbed the screwdriver from his teeth and looked at his watch. It was almost three in the morning. Steve had been gone for hours and Fury as well. He crossed his workshop and checked the calendar. He wasn’t slated to travel to the warehouse for couple of days. First the parts would need to arrive there intact and then moved onto the main floor of the building, things that didn’t require his direct supervision. On top of that, the matter of the targeting systems remained, a topic that Tony was eager to discuss with Fury and Pierce.

“Is Pierce up there?”

“No, sir.”

“Then tell them to come back in the morning,” Tony muttered. “I have my hands full enough as it is.”

The Mr. Handy made a supplicating, apologetic beep. “Unfortunately, they were quite insistent,” JARVIS said. Behind him were the men in gray suits, both wearing sunglasses in spite of the dim light.

Tony shook his head. He pushed back the robot and started jamming a finger into the taller man’s chest. “You have a lot of nerve coming back in here,” he snarled. “I told you, I’m not starting more work on Project Insight until I get a meeting with Pierce and Fury in person. Throw in Rogers while you’re at it, I wanna see him tear them both a new one.”

The harsh treatment hardly fazed the man. Instead, he merely straightened his tie and adjusted his glasses after Tony backed off. “Alexander Pierce has an important announcement to make,” the tall man said.

Tony huffed and blew a raspberry. “Again? It’s every-other-goddamn-minute with that guy.” The two men only stared behind mirror-like lenses. “Well what’s he have to say that’s so important this time, eh? I accept telegrams.” Tony stood hands on his hips, waiting for the interlopers to deliver Pierce’s no-doubt frivolous message.

Cold metal clicked at his left temple. He raised his hands to elbow height, which, incidentally, was level with the shorter man’s cranium. “Attendance is mandatory,” the short man said.

“Fine, fine,” Tony muttered. “Though I’m sure Pierce wouldn’t want you threatening the life of Project’s head engineer.”

The shorter man prodded him with the edge of the barrel and Tony complied. They led him out of his vault and into town, the shorter man prodding him the whole way. As they neared the surface, he heard the rustle of clamor and panic among his fellow Interstate dwellers.

“Emergency: Class A, Emergency: Class A,” filtered over civilians and traders as they were forced from their homes and into the town square. Their faces were confused and piqued, their eyes fearful. Other guards from Hillside forced people from their shacks and tents.

Torches burned at either side of the stage in the town square. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony spotted Clint. He turned to his rough companions. The jab of the barrel was no longer pushing into his side. “Okay, I get the point. I’m at your little club meeting.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m just going to watch from ten yards that way, if it’s all the same to you.”

Before they could respond, more guards herded another throng of fearful citizens between them. Tony took the opportunity and pushed his way toward Clint.

“Fancy seeing you here? Bride or groom?” Tony shouted.

Clint was a thick line of rigid tension. “Just got back in, actually. Hardly made it a mile out of here before I heard them sound the alarm. Something’s gone down.” He stood on the tips of his toes. “This is crazy. The last time they called a ‘Class A,’ someone…” Clint paused and clenched his fists. He had not heard from Rogers or Fury in several hours. He assumed that Fury would be guarded during his trip, but he knew that he sometimes traveled alone. Phil wouldn’t even be offered the same treatment, he realized and Clint’s heart beat in his ears at the mere thought of harm coming to him.

Clint cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted. “Get on with it already!”

Tony looked to the stage. At its left bank, he saw Pierce and a few marksmen gather near the microphone. Pierce’s face and step were austere, almost ritualistic. He held his hands behind his back and approached the microphone, slowly, waiting for the crowd’s full attention to shift to the stage. The guard to his left silenced the woman with the bullhorn and suddenly everything fell quiet. Tony felt his piercing eyes settle on his face.

“I come before you today bearing grave news.” Pierce didn’t move a muscle. “Roughly two hours ago, scouts under S.H.I.E.L.D.’s direction witnessed a heinous crime take place between Interstate and Endsville.

“We here who are gathered under the enduring promise and protection of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Concordat have another who would step in and disrupt our noble peacemaking.” Pierce paused again. “Co-director of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Security Council, Nicholas Fury, was found murdered at the hands of none other than Steven Grant Rogers, better known to us all as Captain America.”

The crowd gasped and fell into appalled frenzy. They rushed toward the stage, some clawing for answers, others accusing and others frozen in disbelief. The rushing tide swept up Tony and Clint. Dozens of hands pushed him forward in their collective ire. Then suddenly they found themselves beneath Pierce’s gaze.

Pierce stepped back as the listeners pushed near the front, shouting indiscriminate cries of panic and disapproval. Pierce’s resolve was immutable and he remained cemented to the spot. Tony took note of his unabashed disgust at the sight of the crows. Pierce’s guards aimed their weapons to the stars and fired. The people drew slightly back.

“This horrific news shocks and saddens us all. Once a uniting symbol for the United States of America and then for her remnants, we have all come to know Rogers as a stalwart hero, ready to come to anyone’s aid. However, such fictions must be discarded in order for progress to fully flourish.”

Pierce looked upon him piteously. “I am sorry to burden you all with this revelation, but we must accept the facts. Steve Rogers, from this moment forth, is to be considered a traitor to S.H.I.E.L.D. and her interests.” Pierce held a holotape recorder up to the microphone. He clicked it on.

Steve’s voice rang over the speakers. “If you let me in on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security council and let me help decide how this thing will be used, then you’ll have your super-soldier and your damn mascot.” Everyone fell silent as it played for twice more. A pall of disbelief and shame surged through the crowd.

Tony looked to Clint. His teeth were bare in an outraged grimace. His hands shook and, before Tony could rein him in, he made a dash for the stage. Clint leapt up and landed with a loud, hollow thunk on the wooden platform.

“That’s not true! Steve would never murder Fury for some stupid political advantage!” he turned back on the crowd. "Ever since he woke up he's done nothing but help S.H.I.E.L.D."

Pierce sighed. “His contempt for your popular opinion was deplorable and his desire for power, sickening,” Pierce argued. “He is an enemy of the state. He can no longer be trusted.” He nodded toward the guards and they seized Clint in their grasp. Clint screamed and fought their grasp, but he was quickly overwhelmed on the stage. They carried him kicking and screaming into the dark as horrified onlookers stood paralyzed under the scrutiny of shotgun barrels.

Tony placed his hands on the stage, but in a flash, two guards were on top of him, wrenching his arms behind his shoulders. They held him in place, forcing him to watch the rest of Pierce’s oratory.

“Order must be maintained. Steve Rogers and any remaining traitors and assassins must be dealt with for the greater good. Until we carry through Project Insight to completion, we will all have to stand vigilant against them. Therefore, as the remaining Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security council, I hereby invoke Section 26 of the Concordat: Martial Law,” Pierce boomed. High on a cloud of pomp and decorum, Alexander Pierce left his post, disappearing behind a wall of guns and armor.

Tony struggled against his captors’ grips while they began leading him after Alexander. He thought fast. He rooted in the pockets of his Vault 37 jumpsuit and found a small, metallic cylinder.

Having seen many a wanderer with no teeth at all, Tony had taken in interest in improving oral hygiene as one of his many side projects; to this end, he attempted to invent a laser-powered toothbrush, something one could use without wasting water and without toothpaste. He considered a partial success, thus far. It was functional, but only if the user possessed enamel as durable as a deathclaw's. Otherwise the user was left with only singed roots and crispy gums. Still, it did in a pinch when his soldering iron was nowhere to be found in the chaos of his laboratory.

He withdrew the brush and switched it on. The tiny tube buzzed and vibrated in his hand. Soon, a bright blue ring of light hovered near the end. He shut his eyes and jammed it into one of the guard’s sides, sending sparks and searing smoke pouring the air around him. Bystanders jumped back and the other guard loosened his grip out of sheer surprise.

Tony ducked under his arm and sprinted toward Vault 37. He pressed a button and the antique plates started rolling into place in an attempt to seal the vault. It would only buy him time. The thing never closed all the way. Another side project he had yet to get to.

His heart nearly beating out of his chest cavity, Tony flew down the steps to his lab. He quickly grabbed a back-up eyebot and a screwdriver. He nimbly unhinged a compartment in back and carried it over to his computer monitors. Three hard-drives rested on the counter. He slid them into the compartment and screwed the lid back on.

He switched on a monitor and loaded his tracking device. A small blip flashed near Endsville and Tony’s stomach dropped. Pierce had been right about that much, Steve was near the scene of the crime. Tony shook his head as he entered in the tracking coordinates to the beat-up eyebot. Steve couldn’t have killed Fury. No way in hell. He only hoped that the eyebot would find more than a corpse.

Next he grabbed a holotape recorder and plugged into a slot on the eyebot’s side, peeling away a stripe of worn duct tape with the word “DUM-E” written in thick marker. He began recording a message, regurgitating everything he heard slither out of that smug bastard’s mouth, Clint’s kidnapping and Pierce’s invocation. He pried open the eyebot's rear compartment and tucked away three hard drives, recording his contingency plan.

No sooner did he finish than he heard heavy boots clomp down the stairwell. They must have gotten past the main hatch. He didn’t have much time. He booted up the eyebot and set it to start up in an hour and run his tracking protocols. Hopefully that would give him enough time to lure any trespassers away from Vault 37. 

He heard the cocking of several rifles behind him. He swung around. His custom plasma pistols were safely tucked away in a safe two rooms over. He was caught. Pierce walked out in front of his squad, arms again tucked behind his back. “Nice fireworks, Stark. Very cheeky.”

“Strange, I thought we were having tea and cookies at your place,” Tony said.

Pierce’s bland smile turned into a solemn frown. “Enough funny talk, Stark. Had one of the dirt-smeared townsfolk pulled that stunt, they would have been put down without hesitation. You are on very thin ice.”

“Where are you taking, Clint?” Tony barked. “What have you done with Fury?”

“Do not worry. Fury will soon become irrelevant and, like you, Barton still has his uses,” Pierce said. “Stay useful, and you live.”

Pierce nodded to his squad. In a flash, Tony was shackled and chained up like a dog. They snapped a heavy collar around his neck and took him thrashing from Vault 37. His squad then swept up every blueprint, map, diagram and instruction manual in Tony’s lab, tucking them away in sacks and suitcases for later reference.

They shut down his computers and crushed his collection of hard drives at Pierces’ behest. Three, however, still lay undisturbed, tucked into the back pocket of the eyebot in the recycling bin.

An hour passed and slowly it came to life. It went through its calibrations and ministrations, updating core mission parameters and databases. A new directory of information took hold. It floated up out of the metallic refuse and up toward a duct above. It clanged against the side of the duct as it ascended and it emerged out of a grate a half-mile out of Interstate and began its weary trek toward its mark.

 

\+ + +

 

“Turns out, ‘Project Insight’ isn’t solely Pierce’s slogan,” Tony’s voice blathered through fits of static, “It’s some kind of targeting algorithm. It is sort of like the ones in robot tech from Rob-Co, but far more advanced. I have no idea who made it, though.” In the background, heavy booms against steel resounded. “In the caboose of the eyebot, you’ll find three hard drives containing a program of my design. It can scramble the targeting systems permanently,” a loud crash sounded far off in the background of the recording, “but you’ll need a Vault-Tec computer to piece it together—it’s the only language this algorithm understands and the one my antidote will have to use. Then you’ll have to go to the warehouse and do a manual override aboard the vessel itself and on the ground systems.” Another loud crash. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Cap. Good luck.”

Natasha was still and rigid. “They have Clint,” she said. “He should have laid low.” She knew about his issues with chains and dark spaces. Phil always kept a light on, be it a broken lamp or a small lantern. She closed off that train of thought, willing herself to focus on the matter at hand.

Sam held her by the shoulder. “He’s not that kind of guy, Nat,” his mouth curved downwards solemnly. “No way in he would’ve stayed quiet in the face of all of that. Hell, I would’ve spoken out too.”

“They didn’t shoot him,” Steve said. “They wanted him alive for a reason. There’s still a chance we can save him.”

“But first things first,” Sam said. He procured a Phillip’s head and sure enough the drives was tucked away behind a plate of the eyebot. “Vault-Tec, huh?” he said.

Natasha crossed her arms and concentrated. “Tony’s vault is out of the question. Its original computer systems had been scavenged away by the time he settled in there.”

Sam looked to Steve, whose stone face was deep in thought. “I guess we’re all thinking the same thing.”

“Vault 40. In Hillside,” Steve said. Natasha’s mouth pinched into a singular point of dread, consternation and determination.

“No outsiders have ever been inside of Vault 40. They’re a really protective bunch,” Sam said. “Hell, not even Fury gets to visit the vault that often.” He crossed the living room of his shack and unrolled a great, dusty map. It depicted Fort Roxbury and the surrounding town from over head in plain flat lines. In the upper right-hand corner a hill was labeled. Steve knew he was already planning a trail as he traced line after line with his index finger.

“Are any caravans scheduled to travel to Hillside?” Natasha asked, eyeing the map over Sam’s shoulder.

Sam nodded. “That jackass Sitwell is supposed to be moseying on up there at the crack of dawn tomorrow,” he rubbed his goatee. “I reckon they’re bringing up the last of the census papers from Sanctuary to HQ. They finally shut up about them a couple days ago.”

“Three birds, one stone,” Steve said. “Once we’re in Vault 40, we ready Tony’s sabotage routine and find Clint. Then we torch the census papers.”

“You’re right. There’s no telling what kind of applications they might have planned for it after they have purged the undesirables,” Natasha said, her words were blank and flat, her usual coping mechanism. Sam fell silent. “Well, they’re not gathering this information to invite everyone over for tea and cookies, Wilson.”

He ran his hands over his face. “I guess not. Damn.”

Steve joined them at the kitchen table over the map. “I know I can’t ask you to—”

“Not another word. I want in on this,” Sam interrupted.

“Are you certain? We don’t have any idea what kind of security we’ll be up against,” Steve said, eyes returning to Natasha’s. “No matter what, it’s going to be dangerous.”

Sam clapped him on the back. “Said it before and I'll say it again, Rogers. This means helping out Captain America. There’s no way in hell I’d say no to that.” Steve smiled softly and held out a gloved hand. Sam took it in his grip and gave it a firm shake.

Grabbing a pencil, Sam began tracing a line on the map. “Alright, here’s how this is gonna to go down,” Sam started.

 

\+ + + 

 

The Winter Soldier thrashed in his restraints. The buckles nearly popped with the pressure but held only just. He knew not why he had returned. A burning sensation throbbing in his frontal lobes, engraved with punishment and torture, urged him to return to the metal caves of Vault 40. He had slipped in through a secret entrance, one used exclusively by him. A group had met him there, some in lab coats, more in shining black armor and one in a suit, neat and prim.

The soldier’s eyes were free from the hypnotic glaze that their training had drawn over them. That man in the cave had knocked something loose, an essential link in their chains. He was furious and trembled as he growled, “Who is he?”

The man in the suit closed his eyes and shook his head. “Recalibration,” he uttered. Seemingly of their own accord, the soldier’s knees gave out beneath him and he collapsed into the iron grating. His breathing came deep and heavy as the squadron surrounded him, silhouetted in the sour, white light.

They dragged his considerable weight through the corridors. Others in white lab coats emerged to watch him pass by, eyes obscured by goggles. The man in the suit again shook his head, running his fingers through his sandy hair.

And then he was in the chair again. The room was dim. He loathed its smooth curves and the dangling apparatus above, how his body seemed to conform to it, how it seemed to belong there. The word had since worn off. Both hands worked wildly at the metal cuffs, but to no avail.

A solitary light blinked on. The man in the suit—“Overseer Pierce,” the others called him—stood before him, face remonstrating and mournful like a father’s. “And you had done so well,” he said. He sat in a stool near the Winter Soldier. He looked upon Pierce with wary eyes.

“Although…I suppose your main purpose has fulfilled. The children of the wasteland now realize how truly vulnerable they are, how much they need our guiding hand. You were a shepherd to their flock. For that I commend you.”

The soldier’s body tensed. He shook his long hair from his eyes so he could more clearly see the man before him and meet his cold gaze. “I know him.” He squinted his eyes shut. He saw him emerge from shadowy memory, a bright smile spreading across his lips, his face lit by the warm sun. Both seemed so attainable and yet so impossibly distant. His face was wrenched in aching yearning.

“Who is he?”

Pierce was still. “He is not important. He will soon be in the past, a mere memory from uncertain times.” Pierce stood and approached the elaborate device. The soldier recoiled at his approach. “I need you to perform one last act, one that will cement our grip and herald the arrival a new, clean era. I know you can do it.”

The soldier’s heart quickened, sending a deep flush across his neck, shoulders and face. His blue eyes blinked rapidly in disbelief as the spherical apparatus floated down from above, locking beneath his jaw, caging in his head. A mousy woman in a white lab coat slipped in a rubber mouth guard and stepped away.

Pierce stood nearby. “Just one last act.” The woman flipped the switch. “And then you can rest.” The soldier’s head was enveloped in scorching pain that raced up and down his spine. He cried out against the mouth guard. The blond man’s smile disintegrated. Every sense was occupied by blinding lights and a low, yet deafening roar. Soon his cries ceased as the apparatus continued its sinister erasure.

 

\+ + +

 

“I’ll be glad when this dump is far, far behind us,” Jasper Sitwell said to the two marksmen behind him. They nodded in mute agreement. Jasper tied his stained tie, gave his leather shoes an ineffectual swipe with a greasy rag and gently dabbed at his black eye with some ointment. “Uncooperative. Unacceptable. Uncleanly,” he grimaced. “Unimportant,” he concluded. He stepped into what he supposed was the living room and snapped sturdy his briefcase shut.

He would be accompanying the last of the forms personally. Of course, Fury and Rogers had failed to fill out theirs, but that would soon become irrelevant. They were not long for this world anyway. He passed by a small bookshelf. A small collection of comics and books lined its shelves. Captain America comics, one after the other. All of them were signed, “To Sam, Hell of a Guy.” Jasper scoffed.

A sharp rap came at the front door. He opened it and the owner of the shack, one Sam Wilson, smiled at him and shook his hand. “I trust you’re ready for the journey back home.”

Jasper smiled politely and nodded. “I really must come back for a visit,” Jasper said cordially. “I haven’t stayed here long, but it sort of feels like home already.” That much was true, once he stepped in as the head administrator for the region, he’d very much like to call Sanctuary home. The location provided a stellar view of the old communications tower at the fort. The only real problem was the natives, but that issue would soon be resolved.

Sam smiled back. “That’s good to hear, Sitwell. I hope my abode was to your liking. Built it myself.”

“It shows,” Jasper said. “Shall we get moving?”

“Of course,” Sam said. He led Jasper and his two guards out of Sanctuary to the waiting caravan. The two brahmin were loaded with heavy briefcases, filled to the brim with birth dates, political ideals and personal agendas written in every sort of hand imaginable, from a child-like scrawl to a withered script.

Jasper hooked a foot into a saddle strap and awkwardly ambled up on Dinah, the middle brahmin of the pack. The two guards situated themselves on either side as Sam took the lead reins in hand.

They walked through the sunrise, watching the horizon evaporate into the reds and blues of morning. Dinah was uneasy, requiring several stops. “She just gets anxious. You gotta relax, man,” Sam said to Jasper. He rolled his eyes, saying that beasts of burden don’t share the same sensibilities as man.

“Even two men can’t see eye to eye,” Jasper said.

“Just try, okay?” Sam patted Dinah’s sides. “Just a little longer, girl,” Sam said.

Once they were three miles out of sanctuary, past his shack at the ranch and the last trading posts between Sanctuary and Hillside, he led the group toward a dried-up gulch.

“We didn’t come this way before,” one of the marksman noted.

“It’s much safer on this route,” Sam started, looking toward the marksman’s mask. “A mean mess of radscorpions has been nesting beneath the main road. Bastards can sting you, even if they’re submerged under the sand. It isn’t pretty,” he said.

“Good thinking, Sam,” Jasper said, admiring the man’s willingness to improvise and his knowledge of the local wild life. Jasper had been a vault baby, through and through. Though Vault 40’s seal had been broken some years before his birth, he was raised in her tunnels, like his ancestors before him, soaking up the dogma and rich teachings of Overseer Pierce. A man like Wilson may prove useful for the coming age as a guide, he mused. Hopefully his census documents were up to snuff.

Sam stopped the brahmin in their tracks. He removed his mirrored sunglasses in the gleaming sunlight. “Just a sec, that last gust of wind smudged my shades.” He wiped them with a small cloth and held them again in the light. The sunlight reflected off of them and gleamed across the surrounding rocks.

Sam picked up the reins again. He took one step forward. He whistled sharply and the brahmin took off in a startled, wobbling run. Jasper lost his bearings and tumbled onto the gulch floor, spitting up sand and dirt. The two men’s guns were raised and ready, but a shining disc whizzed past, bouncing off of their outstretched arms, sending their guns flying into the stony walls and their arms whipping backward.

Natasha jumped down from a crevice high above. A low kick sent one to his knees and an outstretched fist found the soft spot between the helmet’s jaw and the beginning of the breastplate. The man sputtered as he failed to catch his breath.

A man swung down from a dried root and grabbed the second man by the armpits and pitched him backward into the ground, the marksman’s head landing with a heavy thud. Natasha slammed the first into the dust and gave the helmet a swift kick, causing the body to go limp beneath her.

Jasper Sitwell trembled as he covered his head with both arms. He was no warrior. Suddenly everything was quiet, save for the rapid heartbeat thudding in his ears. His lungs filled and emptied at a rapid pace, rising in tension as the two assailants approached. He peaked through his fingers and let loose a low groan.

“Rogers. Goddamn it, what are you doing here?” The sun burned from over head.

Steve fastened his shield to his back and crouched before the trembling man. “You know why I’m here.”

Natasha, however, loomed above Jasper, jaw tilted up. “You don’t need any details. Only what we need of you.”

Jasper giggled in nervous fits, his shoulders shaking with each iteration. “So what? Are you going to murder me, Rogers? Doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“You’re right. It’s not my thing.” An almost imperceptible grin cracked out on Steve’s face. He nodded toward Natasha. “It’s more hers.”

At that, she leaned forward and pinched Jasper’s mouth between her fingers. His whole body seemed to pitch backward into the dirt. He tried pulling away, but she wrenched him around and straddled his chest. A finger slid into his mouth. “Open,” she commanded. Jasper grunted and shook his head. “Open up or we leave you here for the deathclaws.” Jasper groaned and opened his mouth a tiny sliver.

He saw a small metallic capsule pinched in her fingers. She slipped it between his lips. “Swallow.” He obeyed, tears streaming out of his left eye. She released him and he sputtered in the dirt, trying to spit the thing out. He felt tiny pincers nip him at the base of his throat. He coughed and gagged but to no avail. Natasha watched him squirm in the dirt.

“You know, we wastelanders can be quite resourceful,” she said. She dug in her pocket and withdrew a tiny remote. She pressed a button and an electrical hiss sounded in his esophagus. Jasper cried out and got to his hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably, fisting his shirt and clawing at his sternum.

“What did you put in me? What is this?” he cried. His chest burned and seemed to seethe with electricity.

“Something I found while prospecting,” Natasha said casually. “It was originally used to charge the batteries of various appliances. That was the electric pulse set to 20%. Wanna see it at 50%?”

Jasper held up his hands, which trembled in the air. "No! No!" 

“You do what we say, and we take it out,” Steve said. “Do you understand?”

Jasper gritted his teeth, he got off his knees and brushed off his suit. “What do you need me to do?”

 

\+ + + 

 

They left Sanctuary’s census papers in a burning stack behind them. The suitcases were instead filled with some stones, nothing too heavy for the journey ahead and not light enough to arouse suspicion. Steve felt confined in his Hillside gear, but he said nothing. He wondered how so many people could be so well armed. He recalled a few armories during his stay at Fort Roxbury, whose ruins they now passed, but he did not think so much of the gear would have survived the nuclear blasts.

Jasper was again situated on top of Dinah, and she was more nervous than ever. Steve tied a tarp around his shield and secured it on his back. No use providing a clear target. They traveled through the gulch silently and soon the sun rose overhead. Soon the path up presented itself and they took to the narrow road carefully. At the mouth of the road, wasteland stretching out before them and the communications tower at Fort Roxbury.

Steve stopped them in their tracks. He thought of removing his helmet, but decided against it. No telling who was spying around the bend. “Before we go any further, I need to know. What is Project Insight? What is it really?”

“It’s a law,” Jasper plainly, eyes narrowing at the two of them. “It tells us who will stand with us and those who must be done away with.”

"How does it do that?” Sam asked.

“The census,” Jasper started calmly, “informs the law of a man’s inner life: his beliefs, his ambitions, his fears.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. Natasha stepped forward. “Then you feed that data to the prototype’s targeting systems. Then kill people off," she said.

“To put it bluntly, yes,” Jasper said, pushing his glasses up with two fingers. “When certain parameters fail to match with ours, the law begins filing the citizens away in different tiers. Those near the bottom are slotted for elimination,” Jasper said plainly. His tone was more suited to small talk about the weather.

"You monsters,” Steve spat. “How could you possibly act civilized when you mean to execute so many in such a manner?”

“It was a man of your time who pioneered the project, Rogers—the great Arnim Zola. He had a mind to put a stop to your time’s squabbles, but none would hear his wisdom. And so,” Jasper spread his arms out wide, “we’ve come to this.” The once tidy grids of the town, shaken by the tremors of the nuclear blasts, were twisted and marled. Most of the homes had simply evaporated in the nuclear fire and those that remained were hollowed out husks, foundations rising into the air, blackened and dead.

Steve racked his memories. Indeed, the name sounded familiar. A deeply buried part of his mind held the key, but the years spent asleep forbid him from delving deeper. “That doesn’t excuse anything, Sitwell,” Steve shot back. “The American people fought tooth and nail against the use of such force.” He balled his hands into fists. “Pierce would be a fool to follow the old world’s example,” Steve said.

Jasper shook his finger. “But he isn’t, Rogers.” His smile was wide and slick. “What your compatriots lacked was precision, Rogers. Alexander Pierce would never stoop to such barbaric methods as a nuclear bomb. It’s just messy.”

They were all still. Natasha shook her head and pressed a switch and Jasper cried out. “Oops. My finger slipped,” she said flatly.

“We can’t waste anymore time on this,” Sam interjected. “We have to get moving.”

Steve’s eyes remained locked with Jasper’s. They were dark, cold and unfeeling, under Pierce’s grand spell. No longer did he wonder about the helmets that the Hillside guard hid behind. They all must have shared the same, contemptuous gaze. He shook his head and marched forward. “Sam’s right. We don’t have time for this.” Taking the reins, Sam caught up to Steve, who kept as much distance from Jasper as feasibly possible.

 

\+ + +

 

Steve crushed the embers underfoot. Lunch consisted of roasted salamanders and scorpion claws. They were drawing close. Already, the slow, stooping crescent of Hillside was peaking over the horizon. The hill, he could see, was ragged and crumbling, but a memory of its former beauty persisted.

Steve had been there with Bucky several times. The hill was verdant and calming, even with the communication towers of Fort Roxbury in the distance—the ever-present reminder of the rising global chaos. Many suspected the hill was manmade as well, like Lake Liberty, but Bucky didn’t mind. He would lie on his back, head resting on the downside of the slope, blood slowly rushing to his head. His face would flush and Steve would steal glimpses of his bellybutton and the light dusting of hair on his stomach. And, when it would be time to leave, Steve would always reach down and helping Bucky balance against his chest as the blood drained down his chest to his legs to his toes and he would be all warm and sleepy and affectionate. They had egg salad sandwiches last time they visited the hill. Steve sighed beneath his helmet.

Sam looked to Jasper. His face, once easy with smug determination, was now slowly filling dread and doubt. Pierce was a stern man, and it came to no surprise that his punishment came equally so. He wondered if Jasper would make it out alive. He glanced Sam’s way, eyes filled with scorn. Sam wondered a bit less.

Another half-hour passed. The sun started to dip into early afternoon. Steve was slick with sweat. He tired of his breath resonating in the helmet’s inner chamber, of walking, of entertaining the scornful sneers of their captive. Hillside was ever approaching.

“Everyone brace yourselves,” Natasha said. “We need to be ready for anything.”

A sharp gust of wind pitched at their feet, sweeping upward into the sky. The tarp covering his shield blew away high into the air, floating on the remaining breeze dozens of yards off. Jasper snorted. “You couldn’t even knot that correctly? And you expect to—” Jasper gasped. His words curdled and died in his mouth. Blood seeped from his lips and he hung limply off the saddle. He gasped once and then crumpled to the ground at Dinah’s feet.

Sam and Natasha ducked low and Steve held up his shield to guard them. Two more bullets bounced off it. A third sunk into Dinah’s right-hand head and she wailed low in pain as the other head twitched and slumped down. She fell to her knees, sending dust billowing and legs bucking behind her, causing Sam and Natasha to spread outwards.

Natasha glanced left and right. None of the houses in this area would make suitable cover—most of them barely had walls standing. Natasha grabbed Sam by the shoulder and they zigzagged toward a nearby outcropping of rock. Steve let them move ahead and he turned to face the origin of the gunfire, with his back to the rocks. They came from the right of Hillside, near where the hill’s edge sunk low and dissolved into barren prairie. Steve crouched low in a ball. Sam and Natasha followed suit. “Hold on!”

A second later, another burst of bullets ricocheted off his shield. Each blast sent tremors shooting up his arm. Natasha grunted from the force propelling into them. She pinched a dented bullet from the rock and examined it. .308, hollow-tip. “It’s him!” She and Sam moved around to the opposite side of the rocks, away from danger.

A pause stretched in the gunfire. He was reloading. Sam pulled out a small hand mirror and held it above their heads, catching the sunlight. He angled the mirror wildly, sending beams of light shooting to and fro and no doubt into the sniper’s sight. The pause stretched onward.

Natasha took her chance and climbed up the rocks, lying low and slipping a pair of binoculars off her hip as she rolled behind a peak. She looked over the horizon. A small, black speck was approaching them. The figure grew larger and larger within seconds. He was barreling toward them at a full, relentless sprint. His left arm was gleaming in the dying sunlight, as if on fire. She saw it curl behind his back and withdraw knife with his left arm.

The figure pitched it with all his might. Natasha crouched down. A small dagger sparked against the rocks inches from her shoulder. “We have a bogey, 2 o’clock. ETA, twenty seconds,” she called. She swerved left. Another group of figures were approaching steadily from Hillside proper. “A minute, thirty on the second squad. Six men, armed to the teeth.”

Steve hauled himself up the rock and readied himself to pounce. Sam unhitched two small cylindrical objects and hurled them like discuses in the pathway. Two small red dots glowed and the mines clicked, armed and ready.

Their assailant was on them in moments. His shoulders were broad and imposing. His ragged hair hung plastered against his goggles. His left arm was entirely mechanized; a series of complex hinges and chinks ran up and down his arm. Steve widened his stance, preparing for the initial strike.

Sam fired his rifle three times at the man. The man leapt up onto the rock, knife in hand, up and over Steve. He wrenched off Sam’s helmet and grabbed the barrel of his rifle, easily crushing it with his left hand. The soldier pitched him off the boulder. Sam tumbled in the dirt, wind knocked from his lungs. Natasha nimble dodged three heavy swings and dove off the boulder to help Sam.

Steve raised his shield and swung upward in a wide arc. It caught him at the temple and bounced back off an adjacent rock and into Steve’s grip. Using his cybernetic arm, he propelled himself high off the rock and downward, fist extended. It collided with Steve’s shield, sending Steve flying backward in the sand and his helmet spiraling off from the force of the blow.

The soldier regained his posture. The man wrenched off his goggles. His eyes grazed over Steve’s face and for a split-second he paused. Steve lowered his shield for a moment. The hardness returned to the man's eyes. He then withdrew a serrated blade and leapt forward. Steve ducked backward from the wide swipe, but the soldier seemed to always be a half step ahead of him, taking advantage of every tiny opening in Steve’s defensive maneuvers.

They circled each other wildly near the rock, a flurry of hands and limbs. His knife came centimeters from entering through cracks in his armor with Steve barely evading grievous injury. Each swung hard, hoping to land a crippling blow. The soldier swept low with a vicious kick. Steve flipped backward, barely avoiding the strike.

“Here come the others!” Natasha shouted from the opposite side. Steve heard a rapid crackle of gunfire sound at his rear. Sam’s rifle was spent, nearly torn in two by the force of the metal hand’s grasp alone. He withdrew a 9mm machine gun and got into cover adjacent to Natasha. She hid low, ready to strike.

Sam counted under his breath. On three, the mines ignited, sending rock and dirt flying. Natasha darted out into the billowing dust, knife at the ready and Sam laid covering fire in short bursts. She leapt into the air. She caught a man’s head between her thighs and twisted her torso, wrenching him to the ground. Bullets flew over her head, embedding themselves in rock.

The soldier initiated a series of wide arcing swipes, juggling the knife between his hands and attacking from all angles. The soldier charged forward, landing a heavy kick against Steve’s shield, sending tremors through his left side. Steve dodged another swipe of the knife and ducked beneath a kick, breathing deep, his entire focus concentrated on the edge of the soldier’s blade.

Natasha threw a dagger to her left and caught a guard in the kneecap. He cried out and fell. The dust was beginning to clear. Sam ducked behind the rock and pulled out a second clip. Three more emerged from the haze, coming straight for her. She tumbled out of reach as a fire-axe came swinging down, catching the man’s arm beside her.

Sam readied his gun and prepared to fire, but a burst of gunshots, tightly grouped, grazed his shoulder. Sam grunted and took cover as several other bursts shouted overhead. Natasha kicked high, catching another in the throat. The man gurgled and gasped for breath. She put a few yards between them, re-assessing their patterns. The gurgling man unhitched his helmet and cast it aside.

Rumlow took a deep breath and reached into his holster. Sam quickly wrapped his wound. Rumlow whipped out an iron rod. He whipped it and it extended another foot, its tip crackling with electricity.

Between the cruel exchange of blows, Steve saw another squadron approaching quickly over the sands. His moment’s distraction provided a crucial opening, and the soldier quickly took advantage. He swung hard with his left fist, catching Steve’s ribcage. The air was knocked out of him and the world seemed to twist beneath him.

A devious grin flashing across his face, Rumlow charged forward, whipping the cattle prod back and forth. Natasha dodged and swerved, unable to close the gap and confront him. With his good arm, Sam laid more cover, but his targets had grown bold, returning fire to his position.

Steve nearly collapsed and the soldier let down his guard. Using his last ounces of strength, he sprang up and caught the soldier by the throat. Steve reached for his thigh and thrust upwards using his legs and back, sending the soldier flying through the air. The mask's straps snapped and it remained in Steve's vice-grip.

Dodging backwards, Natasha tripped on a low stone and stumbled. Rumlow swung hard, connecting with her side. A rush of voltage ran through her and she grunted in pain. Sam reached for another clip and found his satchel empty, save for rifle casings and a Swiss army knife. The gunfire rattled forward nearer and nearer and Sam was left with nowhere to run.

The soldier landed on his feet, his metal hand dragging in the dirt. He slowly stood and turned back to face Steve.

Steve’s heart stopped in his chest. His knees nearly gave in. His gaze crept slowly across the man’s jaw, up his cheeks and swam in familiar, blue eyes. The long hair obscured parts of the man’s face. Steve’s mind stalled, struggling to come to terms with the man before him. Instead, it drowned beneath currents of disbelief, hope and despair. He knew that face and that mouth, but not the cold, dead eyes that stared him down, ready to kill and shred. Steve trembled.

“Bucky?” he at last managed.

The glaze over Bucky’s eyes cleared for one fleeting moment, replaced by rampant confusion and distress. Bucky’s lips parted. In that moment, he was no longer a soldier, no longer an assassin, just a blank slate, wildly struggling to match a name with a face, but he found blistering nothingness, walled in by punishing purpose built by cruel hands. His eyes darted down to the left, but then he withdrew a pistol and aimed it at Steve.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the Soldier returned.

Steve took one step forward, momentarily blithe to the surrounding struggle and fighting. As his boot shifted in the sand, the Winter Soldier returned to the man’s eyes. He began firing at Steve. His aim was addled, catching the shield at its edges. But something had shifted; the star and concentric circles bored into his mind and it too demanded a frantic search through his memory.

Nothing emerged. The Soldier reloaded his gun. “Bucky! Stop! It’s me, Steve!” Another barrage of bullets. “Bucky Barnes, stand down! Bucky!” Steve drew closer, shield up and Bucky stepped backwards. His mouth was twisted in uncertainty and torment. His mind attempted again and again to ignite, but failed each time. His fire became more and more erratic and he was on his last clip.

Natasha suffered two more shocks and crumpled into the gravel. Sam was surrounded. He held his hands high in the air, wearing a defiant sneer. Their backup from Hillside swarmed the scene, surrounding them both.

“Well, well. Isn’t this convenient?” Rumlow said. “And here we thought we’d have to initiate a thorough manhunt, but you came to us instead.” He jerked his head over to the other side. “Cuff them. The Overseer wants them alive.”

Steve was limp and compliant. The men fastened heavy, steel cuffs around his wrists and forced him to his knees. A few yards away stood his best friend, his comrade, his lover. And he did not remember.

 

\+ + +

 

Chains ran between their cuffs. Rumlow lead them, silent and dour. Natasha noticed stitches running along his cheek and forehead when he turned to bark orders at the surrounding guards. Two more guards from Hillside had to be called in. One in back kept falling behind, steps slow and ponderous. The rest of the guards made no eye contact. Rumlow muttered into his radio, no doubt informing his superiors of their capture.

Steve kept his eyes on the path, head hanging low. Every image and memory of their childhood and partnership flowed through his mind, mournfully and unending, terminating in blank mystery. Bucky had survived and he didn’t know how. Guilt bitterly blossomed in his heart and he nearly choked beneath its weight.

Hillside rose slowly to meet them. Sam shook his chains, breaking Steve’s lament. Sam never thought that he would pass through her gates in chains. Steve looked up at her walls. They were sturdier and more whole than most he’d seen, corrugated steel and aluminum densely patched together, with no gaps or holes and no line of sight. They were built high in a wide arc that extended into the sides of the jagged hill behind them.

Steve glanced around. Groups filtered out of their homes in small, quiet droves, many of them women and children. The women had their sandy hair tied into strict buns and ponytails, and dressed in gray smocks and long sleeves. The children were quiet and obedient, lacking the spark of puckish frivolity found in their peers of Sanctuary and Interstate.

Never before had Sam felt so out of place, so foreign. Then again, he rarely dealt with the ordinary townspeople of Hillside, only the fettered, but cordial traders and merchants. To think that one week prior, he would have been received warmly.

Chains cutting into her wrists, Natasha swam in her own memories. She found her mother’s face in nearly every silent observer, and in every child she saw herself, quiet and steely. Years ago she had trod these paths, rose dutifully each morning to feed the featherless chickens in their wire cages and, over in the courtyard near the dried fountain, she had listened to laborious sermons and propaganda.

“This day we give our thanks once more to the preparedness of our Ancestors, who, in times of great strife and ruthlessness, captured this vault in the name of survival and progress,” they’d announce in their preamble. Then, right hands held aloft, the congregation would chant. “Hail Hydra. Hail Hydra, Hail Hydra.”

Natasha scowled. And, somewhere underground, Clint lay in tatters and shackles, she thought, undergoing the same punishment and training of her youth. Disobedience was dealt with harshly and if she knew Clint, he would be receiving the worst of it by now.

They passed the stalls and shacks. A great seal awaited them, embedded in the side of the hill. A great hiss of steam burst from the cracks, and the great door collapsed in and rolled to the side, revealing another regiment.

Stepping over the threshold, Steve felt a cool chill run through his body. He knew that their capture meant something more, that they would not be simply executed. Bucky was a twisted vision of his former self and no doubt Vault 40’s sick plans included them as well. They came to the seal and slowly it wound open its great maw, ready to consume them all.

The vault itself was pristine and well maintained, as if it were sacred ground. The walls gleamed in the low light and the consoles were pristine, keyboards and monitors lacking rust and seemingly free from the passage of time. Rumlow jerked their chains and they begrudgingly acquiesced.

“Your friend’s unreliability might turn out well for us after all,” Rumlow muttered as he led them deeper underground. “Sure, simple death would have suited our purposes equally as well,” he turned and smiled. “But, given how far we’ve come with your buddy, I think you’ll become an even greater asset. You can thank us later.”

“Shut your mouth,” Steve snarled. “Bucky is ten times the man you are.” Rumlow stopped them in their tracks. All of the surrounding guards drew their weapons, save for the one trailing in back. Rumlow pulled back his arm and slammed his fist into Steve’s eye socket. Steve’s head shot back from the force of the blow, but still he stared defiantly into Rumlow’s stitched and bruised face. “Is that what you think you are? An asset?” Steve asked gruffly. “More like a pet.”

Rumlow grabbed a fistful of his hair and brought him close. “You’ll be lucky to be a pet after we’re done with you.” He shoved Rogers away and proceeded onwards.

Natasha paid Rumlow no mind; instead, she re-memorized the corridors of the vault: here she used to hide as a child, in play and in fear. Here she wandered too close to restricted corridors and was punished and there her legs would dangle from the workbenches, watching her mother work. As she limped in her chains, everything came flowing back to her and she rapidly plotted their escape.

A white sign above another doorway read, “LABORATORY.” Rumlow led the trio to a chamber nearby. Bars reinforced the hatch and required a separate key. He unlocked the door and it swung open, revealing a bare room. The guard at Sam’s rear struck him with the butt of his rifle. Rumlow wrenched Steve’s arm and shoved him in. “Nice knowing you,” he said.

The door shut and the iron bars slammed on top of them, reverberating in the empty chamber. Bucky must have been held here, alone and utterly bewildered. Steve imagined him, huddled in the corner, clutching himself. Steve sank to the ground. Sam and Natasha had no choice but to follow.

Steve ran his hands over his face and he broke. Sobs erupted from him like a slow tide. “’I don’t got hope for humanity, but I got hope for you,’” Steve repeated. He felt Natasha’s hand firm on his shoulder. “Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky,” Steve choked out. “I failed him.”

They were silent for a long time. Steve’s shoulder shook and heaved.

“It’s not your fault, Steve,” Natasha said. “There was nothing you could have done to prepare him for this. You did everything you could to save James.”

Sam crawled in front of him and tipped Steve’s head up. “We need to focus, Rogers. We can’t do anything to save Bucky if we’re locked up in here. We need to think—”

The iron bars swung open and the hatch followed. A trio of guards stood with rifles aimed at their chests. A lone scientist, a mousy woman with brown jaw-length hair and thick spectacles stood between them. She clapped her hands together, eyes bright and excited. “Oh, these will do wonderfully!” she cried. “I really must congratulate you all. It’s not often that we welcome outsiders into the family. You all must be so excited.”

She stepped back and whispered into a guard’s ear, pointing at Steve. The guard stepped forward and unlocked Steve’s shackles and cuffs. Steve bided his time. There was little he could do with three guns aimed at his skull and his shield confiscated. He looked to Sam and Natasha, and resentfully followed.

The doors locking once more behind him, the three armed guards and the woman in the lab coat led him to the laboratory. They walked past worktables, elaborate glass vestibules and computers, scanners and medical equipment. The sheer size of it dwarfed the skittish woman further as she prattled on.

“It really is a shame about Barnes,” she said. “He never really took to the procedures—a real spitfire, that one. He was fine for the first few years, a good scout he was.” She grabbed a clipboard from a nearby bench and flipped through it.

“Unfortunately, Overseer Pierce’s knowledge of neuroscience is not as keen as it ought to be.” She unlocked another, smaller chamber. Monitors and screens lined the walls of the circular room. In its center was an elaborate seat, its metal curves constructed to mimic the human form. Steel cuffs hung open at each extremity and a large apparatus loomed overhead.

“Seeing you must have sparked something,” she said. “It’s really quite intriguing. Poor thing. His memories always made him so sad. Luckily for you, you will not have to fret over such things any longer. Sit.” She swept her arm to the side grandly, as if inviting him to seat himself to a great banquet. He balled his fists. The butt of a rifle cracked him over the head and he stuttered forward.

“But we have learned so much from your friend’s sacrifice. I think you’ll find unilateral purpose to be soothing.”

He collapsed into the seat and she carefully strapped him in. Steve eyed the gun-barrels warily and she seemed satisfied at his compliance. “There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” she beamed. “Your friend James needed much more coercion.” She held a finger to her lips and pondered. “Though, I suppose his recent physical trauma inspired his ‘fight or flight’ hormone production. Poor thing.”

“What trauma?” Steve asked, a single, vulnerable waver breaking through. The barrels were still trained on him.

“You Americans had developed quite the cryogenics division. We took care not to awaken you so harshly. Didn’t want to risk injuring you,” she paused. “We were unable to extract him wholly. His left arm, unfortunately, was lost in the process,” she said. “Brittle, so brittle,” she said under her breath.

Fire surged through his veins and a low grunt emerged. “You what?” he growled. She winced but continued onward, her hands daintily addressing the cuffs. Her head loomed near and he took his chance. Steve’s head crashed forward into hers. She was sent stumbling backwards, forehead bleeding profusely. She wavered and crashed against the wall. The three guards jumped forward, ready to fire.

Steve’s vision was blurred from the force of the impact. He wrenched his arm against his cuff, but it would not budge. He braced himself for the gunfire, but heard something else instead.

An electric hiss crackled in the chamber and the front guard fainted and crumpled to the floor. Steve opened his eyes. The figure in back whipped a cattle prod. It connected with the other guard’s clavicle and he screamed in pain as he fell back into a rack of syringes and other medical supplies.

The one left standing delivered a swift kick to their heads. The woman in the corner was muttering in a high-pitched panic, hands clutching the pipes behind her. The guard stepped over to her and poked her with the rod and the scientist bit her tongue and slumped down, unconscious.

The guard removed the helmet and let it clatter to the ground.

“God, she gave me the creeps,” Maria Hill said. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her firm smile was wide and comforting. She reached down and grabbed the scientist’s keys. She unhinged the metal cuffs and Steve sat up, rubbing his wrists.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve said.

“Initially, I needed the money. But we can save the chat for later. We have to get out of here. Now.”

Steve nodded and he sprang to his feet. He grabbed a rifle and followed her out. She closed the door behind him and led him back to the empty chamber. She cycled through the keys, tying each one and moving onto the next. “Come on,” she said under her breath. The seconds seemed to stretch endlessly. Steve kept watch around the corner, rifle primed.

 At last she found the right key, but the second hatch remained. Echoing steps rang down the hall to his right. He crouched in the shadows and waited for a solid ten seconds.

“Got it,” Maria whispered. Steve got up and stepped over to the cell. The hatch swung open. Sam wore a sneer, but it was quickly replaced by a wide, toothy smile.

“Well shit! Maria Hill,” he said. He scrambled up and the chains tugged Natasha to her feet as well.

“Will wonders never cease?” Natasha said. She stepped forward and Maria unhinged their cuffs. Maria stepped over to a hidden locker and opened it. She tossed rifles to Natasha and Sam. She paused. Slowly she reached in and felt a cool rim on her fingers. She grabbed the shield and tested its weight. “Strange, I always thought this would be heavier.” She tossed it to Steve.

Natasha, rubbing her wrists, approached Maria. “We aren’t the only ones they’ve taken prisoner. Barton and Stark may be down here as well.”

She motioned for them to follow. She jogged to the corner of the corridor and checked both directions, then waved them over.

“There were two more who came in yesterday,” Maria said. “They were wearing hoods, so I can’t say for sure whether Clint or Tony are down here,” she spoke over her shoulder. “It wouldn’t surprise me, given everything that’s gone down in the past few days.”

She crouched near another corner and peeked around the edge, then waved. “The number of guards down here has been significantly reduced.”

“That tends to happen when you occupy the whole damn wasteland,” Sam said.

Maria hummed in agreement. “But we may run into another patrol, so stay on your toes.” Another corner. “The two prisoners were led this way.”

Another sturdy hatch and set of bars met them. Maria filed through the keys. The same key opened the bars. Steve and Sam kept watch at each corner. Soon enough, the hatch swung open.

The entryway revealed another circular chamber. Shelves of syringes, trays and unlabeled bottles rimmed the walls. A bright, fluorescent bulb shone down through the floating dust. The seat here was less elaborate, but no less secure. Leather straps were tightened around reddening appendages. The figure’s head hung low near his chest. A burlap sack covered his head. His breathing was low and ragged, but continued at a steady pace.

Natasha stepped between Maria and the restrained man. His bare arms were a marled by deep bruises and bloody scrapes. She stepped slowly toward the man and removed the hood. She recognized the sandy, short hair.

As soon as the hood was off, the head rolled back into the headrest. His face was bloodied and covered with spewing welts. His mouth hung open slightly and through it were drawn ragged breaths. “Don’t know…where Rogers is. Fuck off,” Clint murmured.

Maria jogged to one of the shelves. She grabbed a doctor’s bag and threw in medicine, stimpacks and med-x, along with antiseptics and a suturing needle.

“Clint, listen to me. It’s Natasha. We are going to get you out of here.” Her hands gently cradled his head. “Do you understand me?”

“N-Nat? The hell you doing here?” Clint murmured back.

“That’s not important,” she said. Her right hand shot to the leather restraints, loosening each one by one. Clint was unresponsive to his freedom, save for failed attempts at lifting his worn limbs. Natasha moved from the light. In the shadows were lines of burn marks from a cattle prod. She looked to Maria.

Maria walked over and gingerly straightened Clint’s arm. She bit the cap off of a stimpack needle and found a vein. Natasha went to work on the restraints.

Clint groaned, but his voice came a little stronger. “Can you stand, Clint?” Natasha asked. Through some strain, Clint removed himself from the headrest and the seat. His knees buckled and shook and the two steadied him.

“Steve, Sam, we need a little help in here,” Natasha said, a rough edge emerging in her tone.

They were inside in an instant. Sam dipped under Clint’s armpit and supported him. “I got him,” he grunted.

“Horrible, horrible noises,” Clint murmured.

“What was? What happened to the other prisoner?” Steve demanded.

A grim frown spread on Clint’s face. “Practically burned him alive. Went postal after they took Stark. Started a huge scuffle with the guards. Jesus.”

Steve shook his head, a deep dread and anger burning inside. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Clint. I promise you, we’re gonna put an end to this. You were brave to speak out like that.”

Clint coughed and spat. “Thanks Rogers. Means a bunch.” He smiled softly.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy boots resounded against the steel grate floors. “That will be far enough!” a hardened voice commanded.

She was shorter than her two compatriots, but her chest and shoulder pads bore a red insignia—red tendrils emerged and slithered from a grimacing skull. Steve’s eyes bored into it and something emerged from a foggy region of his mind. A sharp pain bore its way through his synapses.

He saw Bucky’s face, dewy with sweat and clouded with soot. They were on base, firing into a crowd of their former compatriots. He saw the red skull plastered on their armbands. His mind burned

“Drop your weapons. Now!”

The trio entered the room, guns drawn. Steve took a look at the metal grate. He took one slow step back and, the moment before his foot met the ground, he raised his knee and slammed his heel into it. The force popped several screws out of their holes, the screws clicking against the metal walls, and the other end shot up from the ground beneath their commander’s feet. She was propelled several feet through the air, into a shelving unit, which crashed and collapsed around her.

Sam took the initiative and whipped his rifle butt into one of their skulls, sending him crashing into another shelf. Bottles crashed and clattered, sending chemical fumes and odors spewing into the air. Rifle shots sounded throughout the corridor in deafening waves and echoes and sparked against the metal walls. A bullet burst through Steve’s bare arm, but he paid it no mind. He sprang forward to fell the last assailant, ramming him with his shield. The last guard flew back into the corridor, whipping against a thick lead pipe.

Natasha swerved and caught the commander under the heel of her boot. The woman beneath her merely smiled and held aloft a remote. She flipped a cover and pressed a button. “Hail Hydra,” she choked out. Natasha knocked her unconscious.

The alarm began blaring, red cones descended from holes in the ceiling and red lights were sent scattered across every surface. Steve turned back to the commander who lay in the broken shelves and bottles. “Hydra,” he repeated. "Hydra."

His eyes screwed shut and their emblem burned in his mind. He knew that name, saw their flags proudly displayed in icy, Russian bunkers, their insignia painted in violent red hues and their mantra echoing through warehouses and forts, ones that he and Bucky had brought an end to. “How could that be?” Steve said, head whirling in confusion. "After all this time?"

No one heard him over the alarms. Natasha darted out of the room and motioned for them to follow. “Come on! I know a shortcut!”

The group followed. Maria held the rear while Sam helped Clint limp through the halls. Natasha’s firm stride echoed between bursts of the sound system. “The vault is going to seal itself up in seven minutes. We’ll be stuck in here for 48 hours unless we can get out.”

Maria fired twice at approaching guards and they returned fire. “There’s no way we can plow through the remaining forces and make our way up there in that amount of time,” she said, head nodding toward Clint. “You’re sure there’s a shortcut?” she shouted to Natasha.

“Family secret,” Natasha returned over her shoulder. “This way.”

She led them through another maze of corridors. She knew these halls. In secret, her mother had taken her here. She had shown her Vault 40’s secret passages and hidden labs, had shown her that human life was fragile and ultimately disposable to their comrades. Those lessons gave way to shivers up her spine. She knew what approached around the bend.

Another group was gathered around a double door, their weapons raised. Natasha tossed a few metal capsules. They latched on their metal armor and discharged strong electric currents, causing their limbs to shake and tremble. They collapsed into the metal grates. She stepped over their bodies and pressed a switch.

“Nat, what are you doing?” Sam shouted.

“We still have our objectives, Sam. We have enough time.” She called a computer console out of the wall and it slid out. The accompanying screen was blank, save for a small line of text at its center: “Emergency Protocol 39-G. Please proceed to a nearby exit or follow the instructions of your sector supervisor.”

“Dammit,” Natasha growled. She leaned in close to the window. A grid of screens and monitors lined the opposite wall, all displaying the same line of text. Near its base was a set of keyboards. She squinted and spotted a small slot near the right hand edge. Stark’s drive would be a perfect fit.

Another duo attempted ambush at their rear. Steve swung hard with his shield and it bounced from body to body, sending each crumpling into the ground, last bursts of gunfire sounding through the hall. His shield embedded itself in a wall around the bend.

A last burst of the magnum embedded itself in Steve’s thigh. He grunted and grasped it tightly. He wound another line of gauze around his thigh and ran to retrieve his shield, while Natasha’s fingers swiftly worked the keyboards near the computer room, to no avail. She slid the console back into the wall.

“We’ll have to come up with another plan,” she said to Maria and Sam. She motioned for them to follow and felt along the wall down the adjacent corridor. She felt a soft ridge and she stopped. She lifted the tile beneath the grate and found another console. Thankfully, the screen was responsive. She typed in the words her mother had shown her and the wall slid aside, revealing another passage.

Sam and Clint went first and Natasha turned to address Steve, but he was nowhere to be found. “Where’s Rogers?”

Steve wrenched his shield from the nearby wall and swung around to run back, but something stopped him in his tracks. A low, blue light filtered through fogged glass across from him. He felt a deep chill behind the door. He approached it slowly. “Four minutes remaining for evacuation, please follow the instructions of your sector supervisor,” an electronic voice announced. His eardrums thrummed in time with the blaring alarm. He heard shouts in the distance, but did not register their meaning.

He swept a hand over the cold glass. In its path he saw a small chamber. Ice and frost collected in its small corners. A figure seemed to be embedded in the frost, still and lifeless. His eyes moved from the man’s boots and up his worn fatigues. The man’s chest was bare and riddled with scars, some old but many new. Steve eyed the familiar line of his shoulders, but, to his horror, he caught the rugged seam between flesh and cybernetics. A red star was boldly displayed on his left shoulder and the metal plates ran all the way down to his fingertips. Steve stifled a low cry, but still he felt his eyes begin to moisten and fill.

Bucky stood behind the glass, eyes close, mouth frozen into a pained twist and his brow despairing. His hair was ragged and knotted from years of neglect and the heavy rings of sleeplessness drooped beneath his eyes. Steve began pounding on the glass.

“Bucky! Bucky, do you hear me?” His hands moved to the circular handle. The bitter cryogenics burned his bare palms, but still he twisted with all of his remaining strength. Drops of blood from his wounds dripped onto the floor, the red twirling lights illuminating their fall.

Steve pounded with his fists, his shield clattered to the floor. “Bucky! Bucky! It’s Steve! Please,” he shouted. He pushed himself wildly from the wall and lined up his shoulder. He took a sprinting start. His shoulder collided with the glass. He jumped back again and rammed the door. The glass splintered beneath the force of his blows, but the door would not budge.

“Two minutes remain. Please ensure that each member of your division is present and accounted for. The vault’s 48-hour quarantine will commence in two minutes.”

Steve wiped his eyes and stumbled toward the entrance, his shoulder burning and battered. He picked up his shield and swung his arm back. A hand caught him firmly by the wrist. “Rogers, what are you doing?” She turned to the chamber and her eyes widened. “It’s him…”

“I have to get him out of here,” Steve said. “I have to—”

Natasha stepped between him and Bucky and grasped Steve by the shoulders. “Listen, I know you’re hurting, but we have to get out of here. We still have a mission Rogers. If we get trapped in here, then there won’t be anything we can do to help S.H.I.E.L.D. or your partner. Understand?” Her gaze was deep and commanding, but her firmness faltered.

Steve’s hand grazed the glass and slowly closed into a fist. He leaned in close to the glass. “I’ll be back, Bucky. I promise you, I’ll get you out of there,” he said. Steeling himself for the separation, he ran after Natasha.

Natasha sprinted at full speed down the halls and Steve followed closely behind. Maria stood near the entrance of a darkened passage, face screwed with frustration and panic. “Where were you two?”

“No time,” Natasha said. The three ran through the passage. The lone path eventually turned from metal grates to cement and then to gravel.

Far behind them, the automated voice announced began counting down. “Vault 40’s quarantine/emergency seal will close in 30 seconds. 29, 28, 27…”

“We’re almost there,” Natasha yelled. A pinprick of light lay ahead of them. Two figures stood huddled near it.

As they near, Sam wildly waved his arms. Clint slumped at his feet. “Where the hell were you guys?” He jumped as a large metal wall began sliding from the rock, closing the light in an increasingly small ring behind him. Natasha rushed to his side and helped Clint to his feet. She hopped through the ever-tightening ring. “15, 14, 13…”

She braced Clint’s arm as he stumbled through the entrance. Sam dove after him. Maria leapt high through the shaft of light feet first and rolled onto the gravel outside. “8, 7, 6…”

Steve curled into a tight ball and somersaulted through the tiniest sliver he could manage and he tumbled into the dust, sand catching in his tears. Muffled behind the door, the now muffled voice made one last announcement. “Thank you for your cooperation. The quarantine will commence for 48 hours, or until Overseer termination.”

They heaved from the exertion. Clint lay in the sand, groaning and spent. Natasha grabbed the doctor’s bag from Maria and began disinfecting and dressing his wounds. Far off in the distance, a shrieking alarm sounded in Hillside and a chorus of voices and commands carried all the way out to them. They heard the heavy doors of Hillside grate against the gravel.

Sam clamored up the low hill on hands and knees. He pulled out binoculars. “Shit,” he said. He turned to them. “We aren’t out of the woods yet.”

“What now?” Maria asked. “They’re going to be on top of us any minute now.”

A great roar echoed throughout the wasteland. Sam returned to his binoculars. “Holy shit. What the hell is that!?”

Steve joined him on the ridge. Another roar sounded and a hail of gunfire sounded in its vicious wake. Steve held Sam’s binoculars to his eyes and looked toward Hillside, avoiding the glare of the early evening sun.

Silhouetted against the fiery sun was a hulking mass, surrounded by a dozen Hillside troops. Large, varicose veins slithered through bulging muscles and arms. A vibrant green hue colored his skin and around his loins were gathered a tattered pair of trousers. Another hail of gunfire and the beast bellowed, not in pain, but in wrath. Several tripped over themselves and fled, screaming into their radios for backup.

The beast grabbed one by the ankles and wielded the tiny man like a club. He swung him into another guard. Their armor collapsed and crumpled audibly under the force of the blow. Another guard climbed onto the beast’s back and hacked away with a machete. This only seemed to irritate the monster as he shook his shoulders wildly. The man lost his grip and was thrown into a ditch, crumpling against a outcropping of jagged rocks.

The mutant thundered and roared as he grabbed two more in his giant, meaty hands and crashed them together like cymbals. The bodies went limp in his grasp and the mutant tossed them aside like litter. It cried out as a grenade burst near its feet.

“A super mutant? What is a super mutant doing this far north?” Natasha said.

“Dr. Banner isn’t your run-of-the-mill mutant,” a voice stated calmly nearby.

Maria swept a leg in the dust and aimed a rifle toward the voice. The woman emerged from the ever-lengthening shadows, hands raised peacefully. She did not waver.

Maria trained her rifle at the woman’s head, finger on the trigger. Steve jumped back below to confront the woman. She wore her hair in neat curls tied at the back. It reminded him of his mother’s hair, conservative but lovely. She was dressed in a jumpsuit that was remarkably blemish-free like her smooth, doll-like features. Her lips were painted crimson and were curved in a soft, self-assured smile.

Natasha dropped down, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “Founder Peggy Carter? Is that really you?”

Peggy lowered her hands. “None other.”

“What are you doing here?” Natasha demanded.

Carter’s ears pricked at another roar. “I am afraid that this conversation will have to wait, Romanov. Heavier artillery will be called in soon and we are not presently equipped to deal with power-armored units.”

Steve approached them. “She’s right. Hunting rifles won’t do much to deter them. We need to regroup.”

“Clint needs medical attention,” Maria said. “What do you propose we do?”

Peggy met all of them in the eye. She turned and started marching away. “Follow me.” The mutant roared triumphantly in the distance.

 

\+ + +

A half-kilometer off, Peggy Carter crouched in the dirt. She withdrew a ring of old keys and swept away a layer of gravel, revealing a metal keyhole. She inserted an oddly shaped key and twisted it. Something cranked beneath their feet. “Step back,” Peggy said. A wide circle six feet in diameter twisted downward and before them a wide mouth opened in the ground. Sand slid from the sides down into the pit.

With a loud click a bright light flashed on, revealing a cement staircase. The party descended them and the lights continued flashing on. The featureless, cement tunnel stretched before them. Neither debris nor ruins littered them.

Clint gasped. “What is all of this?” he asked, turning to Steve.

“I’m not sure,” he said. During his time at Fort Roxbury, he had heard rumors of such utility tunnels, but nothing concrete. It made sense that they did not tell him. He was grounded at the Fort, not serving. Figures of propaganda only serve a purpose so long as they represent the government’s interests, not fostering protests and rebellion.

Peggy jerked her head toward a southern passage. “This way.” The large metal aperture above them began rumbling and slid back into place.

Their footsteps echoed through the tunnels. Steve kept pace with Peggy. Her arms were crossed and her head hung low in thought. Clint was walking better, coming more and more to his senses. Natasha gave him a half-dose of med-x to stave off the pain until he could be more properly treated.

“Care to answer some questions now?” Steve asked.

“Yes, now that we are out of immediate danger.” She stopped in her tracks. “Formal introductions are in order,” she said, extending an arm to Rogers. “My name is Peggy Carter. I doubt you’ve heard my name. Myself, Nicholas Fury and Alexander Pierce are the founding members of S.H.I.E.L.D. Pierce and I authored the Concordat years ago.”

“Fury mentioned another member,” Steve said. “He said you were exiled for endangering S.H.I.E.L.D., keeping secrets. And I suppose I don’t have to guess what the genetic experiments consisted of.”

Peggy laughed. “’Exiled?’ That is an extravagant word for these times.” She crossed her arms. “But yes, my views and strategies were most unwelcome to Pierce. Pot and kettle.”

“Seems like the shoe is on the other foot now,” Steve said.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Peggy turned again and continued leading them. “Pierce was threatened by my work with genetic manipulation. He said that it posed a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s well-being.”

Clint managed a chuckle. “From the sound of that thing up there, I’m tempted to agree with the bastard.”

“You are delirious, so I will let that statement be,” Peggy said sharply. “Dr. Banner has been an invaluable academic partner and colleague. Without him, the Hillside forces could have easily ambushed you during your escape.”

“’M Sorry,” Clint mumbled.

“Apology accepted.”

“So you’ve been wandering with a story-tall bodyguard this whole time?” Sam asked. Clint winced and Sam switched sides, supporting him from his left.

“Not wandering about, so much as performing espionage. Like I said earlier, Bruce is no ordinary mutant. You will see at a later juncture, once we get home.”

“Home?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” Peggy said. She chuckled softly. “I guess I can share the blame for nurturing Pierce’s paranoia. Everyone has their secrets, after all.” She turned another corner and, embedded in the cement wall was the large gear that signaled the entrance to one of the much-coveted vaults. Unlike others, its front was emblazoned with the old United States flag, red, white and blue vibrant and defiant. Something begged for attention in the corners of Steve’s mind. He had seen a door like this before and he knew that more than mere déjà vu was at work.

Peggy stepped over to a nearby console. She reached inside her jumpsuit’s pocket and retrieved a thin strip of metal. She inserted it into the slot and it beeped, a small light turning green. Steam hissed from its seams and it rolled to the side, revealing the security checkpoint, long since deactivated from lack of traffic and usage. Peggy turned to the party. “Welcome, everyone, to Vault 42, my childhood abode. Looks like you’re a bit late with your RSVP, Rogers.”

Vault 42, Steve thought. He had known about this one, seen it in person before the war. A printed invitation floated to mind. He was meant to reside here. “Vault 42,” Steve said. Another sting shot through his synapses. He clutched his head, suddenly burdened and weary. He collapsed to his knees. He remembered the paper envelope resting on their apartment’s kitchen table and a sparsely worded invitation:

 

* * *

 

“Dear Steven Grant Rogers,

 

On behalf of the President of the United States and the United States Army, I, President Dick Richardson of Vault-Tec, present to you and another individual of your choosing an opportunity to reside in Vault 42 here at Fort Roxbury.

 

Though our current political climate is unsure, chaotic and disheartening, we remain to provide U.S. citizens and important persons a light at the end of the tunnel, survival in the face of humanity’s most severe of nuclear exchanges, God forbid it.

 

On Saturday, October 23rd 2077, you are cordially invited to tour Vault 42 with your chosen partner.

 

We eagerly await your RSVP.

 

Sincerely,

 

President Dick Richardson”

* * *

 

Surging images began pouring into his mind. Steve clutched his head in both hands and fell to his knees. Natasha and Maria quickly ran to his side and aided him to his feet. “We need to get him inside. He’s in pain,” Natasha said.

“This way!” Peggy led them through the security checkpoint, down one flight of stairs and to the medical bay. Steve groaned and grunted beneath the strains. Tears formed again in his eyes and he gasped for air. He fled from Natasha and Maria’s hands to the nearby bathroom.

He slammed the door and locked it behind him. He steadied himself against the metal sink, the floor swaying and bucking beneath him. He doused his face with cold water. Every nerve and synapse was in uproar at the strain. Vault 42. He gnashed his teeth and slammed a closed fist into the tiled wall, shaking his head, moaning. “No, no, no.”

Bucky sat across from him at their kitchen table, his smile fading as he read the grim invitation. He set it down and reached across the table, taking Steve’s hands in his. “Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Bucky had said to him. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Another loud crash raced through his thoughts. Slowly he uncurled, looking himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot and every vein in his head pulsed with guilt’s bile. Everything came streaming back to him and the memories seemed to burst from his skull: October 23rd, 2077, the day the world almost ended, the day he condemned Bucky to a life as Hydra’s slave.

  

 


	12. October 23, 2077

 

“Got it,” Natasha said. She and Peggy stood nearby, waiting for Steve to emerge. An hour had passed. Steve had calmed down, but the deadened silence that followed afterwards was too much to bear. Natasha slid her lock-picking kit back into her pocket and entered. The bathroom seemed to be empty. She walked slowly down the length of the tiles, stopping at the last stall. The door was closed and through the gap beneath the door, she saw Steve’s weathered red boots.

Slowly she placed her hand on the metal door and it swung open. Steve was seated on the toilet, head clutched between his hands, shoulders slumped and still. She crouched down before him and cleared his hair from his face.

“Steve, what’s wrong?” Natasha asked quietly. “Talk to me.”

Steve slowly removed his hands from his shattered face. “I remember, Natasha. I remember…everything.” Steve pulled at his hair. “It’s my fault. Simple as that,” he said through clenched teeth.

 

\+ + + 

 

Bucky carefully studied the sheet of paper on the table. He placed his hands flat on the table, framing the invitation from Vault-Tec, reading and re-reading it, as if he couldn’t quite believe what it was saying. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Steve across the table, lips pursed and thin. Steve had slid it across the table for his inspection. They could have heard a pin drop.

Bucky licked his lips, carefully selecting his words, unwilling to deflect the matter with humor.

“Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Bucky said. He clasped his hands together, resting his dimpled chin on his thumbs. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” His gaze was firm and determined.

Steve sighed. “Bucky, this is ridiculous. You don’t really think things will come to that, do you? Nuclear war? Having to hide underground in vaults?” Steve said, hands reaching across the table.

Bucky grimaced. "You don't?"

Steve fell silent.

“It's a real possibility, Steve,” Bucky argued. “Damn, they've built hundreds of these things built by now. Ever since China invaded…shit. I’m surprised Vault-Tec hasn’t sent out the invitations earlier.” He sighed.

Steve grasped his hand. “How can you say that, Buck? After everything we’ve gone through—Russia, Alaska, China. Are you saying it was all for nothing?”

Bucky looked down at their hands. “Never. That’s not what I’m saying, Steve.” He paused, breathing coming to slow stop. “I don’t know. I just wanna be certain that you’ll be safe. I mean, we have to have a back-up plan, right?”

“We’ll get through this, Bucky. I know we will.” He ran his hand across Bucky’s face. He went into their kitchen, putting on the kettle and taking out a jar of “Patriot’s Brew” tea. He returned to Bucky with a steaming mug.

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave the invitation. “It doesn’t mean that we're giving up, Steve. Just because we have a spot in the Vault…it doesn’t mean we’re surrendering.” Bucky turned in his seat, eyes imploring. "I know you'd never give up."

Steve was quiet. He looked at his calloused hands. “I never said that.”

“You were thinking it,” Bucky said quietly.

Their mugs grew cold and a buzz of worry flitted about overhead like a swarm of gnats, feeding on doubt. Steve had watched the cloud accumulate over the past couple of weeks, fogging Bucky’s eyes. Steve knew that he had helped feed it. Yelling to unseen crowds of protestors, ones who fell beneath the President’s heel, battered and forgotten, Steve would wake up trembling, giving ceasefire commands, shouting to legions of power-armored soldiers, upon whose cold ears his orders fell silent. Other nights, Steve would toss and turn, dreaming of Bucky in chains, bruised and bloodied. In spite of his violent starts late at night, Bucky would be there to hold him, rocking back and forth steadily until the sun came up or Steve fell asleep, whichever came first. Steve would try to thank him, but Bucky would shush him and give him a warm, reassuring smile.

Steve’s nightmares were ignited each morning by Fort Roxbury’s “Daily Herald.” Each headline delivered increasingly worrisome news. The United Nations, long since burdened by the energy crisis, finally snapped beneath its weight, disbanding only a week ago. Trade seemed to halt between nations and the riots continued across the globe, some centered on the steep rise of unemployment, others about government brutality and the potential annexation of Mexico. The news was no better. The footage always sided with the oppressive troops, focusing on the looting and vandalism and not the guards’ heavy weaponry and pervasive presence. They had shoved the television into the corner, screen facing the wall. 

During that time they could do little but stew and find comfort in one another. No word had been sent about Steve’s probation and it seemed to stretch on and on. They rarely let Steve into Fort Roxbury; their only connection to the fort consisted of brief missives and the occasional visit to the troops. The fort tracked his every move, treating him like a political prisoner instead of the hero Bucky. Bucky couldn't stand to see him treated that way. People had seen footage of that fateful protest in New York, had seen Captain America turn against the soldiers and call out to the protestors, inspiring them to move forward and fight, to turn against the very institutions that brought him into being. He remained a symbol to them, a beacon of resistance. For that Bucky was grateful, even if Steve worried after the protestor's safety. There was so much more to be done, so many ways Steve wanted to help, but he was sealed away by red tape and constant government surveillance.

Steve joined Bucky on the couch. Bucky had grown weary as well, in spite of his saying otherwise. Captain America aside, it was Bucky who had labored longer in the war effort, Bucky who had seen the chaos encroach upon their borders, Bucky who had been kept as a prisoner of war for three horrific weeks. He had always kept a stiff upper lip, diverting their heavier conversation toward humor and light-heartedness. In spite of his seemingly optimistic outlook, the arrival of Vault-Tec's invitation that morning skewed something in him and it was Steve’s turn to provide the encouraging word.

“Things have been pretty heavy around here, haven’t they?” He picked up a brochure from their coffee table. “What do you say we get out of here for awhile? Try to put our minds at ease for a bit.”

Bucky sipped his cold tea. “And go where?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sure we could get clearance to at least go sightseeing somewhere. We’d be chaperoned, of course, but I think a change in scenery would be nice. Word has it that that Mr. House has that new casino up and running. What was it called?”

Bucky’s face began to lighten and the familiar, hopeful grin formed. “The Lucky 38?” He smirked. “Never took you for a gamblin’ man, Rogers.”

“Took a gamble on you. Seemed to turn out well.”

They placed their mugs on the table, mischief dancing in their eyes.

“And what would we do there?”

Steve inched closer. “The desert’s sunrises are supposed to be nice. And I hear they have a sphinx. And the Eiffel Tower.”

Bucky reciprocated the approach. “And what about at night?”

Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Lemme show you.” Steve took his hand and led him to the bedroom. Steve slowly worked at the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, working from the top down. His tongue lapped slowly at Bucky’s. Bucky pressed in, his bare chest rubbing up against Steve.

Steve gasped as Bucky worked his way down his neck, leaving a trail of bites and nibbles. He pressed a hand to Bucky’s chest and gave a soft shove. Bucky fell back onto the bed, his shirt falling to his shoulders. Steve stepped in between his legs and slowly planted his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. Then he descended on Bucky, mouth open and wanting. Bucky hooked an arm around Steve’s neck. Their teeth clicked together as the embrace became heated and yearning. Steve broke from him and ran a hand through Bucky’s hair.

Steve then moved from his lips to his chin, then his jaw and all the way down to Bucky’s chest. Then he lowered himself from the bed, placing his hand on Bucky’s thighs, face red and needy. Bucky looked at him through his thick lashes, one corner of his mouth perking up in anticipation. Steve’s hand slowly worked the belt buckle. He yanked it out, tossing it over his shoulder onto the floor. He hooked a finger beneath the rim of his trousers and boxers, teasing Bucky’s skin with the edge of his nail. He sighed and took a deep breath and his lips parted.

Slowly Steve undid the button. He tugged the zipper down. He reached in Bucky’s boxers and slid his hands up and down Bucky’s cock. He groaned beneath Steve’s touch. Steve lifted his legs and removed the trousers and boxers, tossing them to the corner of the room.

Bucky was already hard. Steve teased the head with his thumb, making slow circles on top of the slit and spreading the bead of pre-come in a glistening layer. Bucky’s eyes were on Steve’s hand, watching them work his shaft. Steve rose to his feet and planted another kiss.

“Are you ready?” he asked. Bucky could do nothing but nod while he lifted his hips, letting the head of his cock drag along the tent in Steve’s trousers. Steve smiled and lowered himself once more.

He took the shaft in hand and opened wide. His tongue moved slowly over the head, then the delicate expanse of skin between the head and shaft. He bobbed up and down, reveling in the soft writhing beneath him. As his mouth slid up and down, he began taking more and more of Bucky. He raised and lowered his hips in time with Steve’s tongue as he descended deeper and deeper into his sensual trance.

Steve took his time, building up pressure slowly, letting it settle in Bucky’s stomach and pool there until each slight caress sent shivers and shakes through his extremities. But soon Steve became greedy. He loved seeing Bucky come undone at his touch and every caress sent goosebumps dancing on his skin and his eyelashes fluttering.

He quickened the pace. Bucky threw his head back. His mouth widened and he let every groan and whimper escape. His hands closed around Steve’s head and Steve followed Bucky’s pace.

In a mere moment, Bucky’s hips jerked up and down and he let loose a guttural, satisfied groan. Steve felt him spill into his mouth. Giving a few final caresses, Steve stood and went to their bathroom and spay in the toilet. When he emerged, Bucky was on the bed, a wry smile plastered on his face. When Steve sat next to him, Bucky threw a leg over Steve’s hips and straddled him. He reached down, undoing the belt buckle with one swift gesture. His lids were heavy and dreamy.

“Your turn.”

 

\+ + +

 

Steve woke up bright and early, as always. Old habits die hard and, even in the few months of their grounding, he had still not gotten used to the soft bed and thick blankets. Bucky, on the other hand, always slept in, clutching a pillow to his chest once Steve left.

He watched the sun rise and the stars and stripes slowly ascend the flagpole with it. He put on a pot of coffee, then plodded toward the kitchen table. Vault-Tec’s invitation still rested on it, the metal keycard gleaming in the morning light. Near the bottom of the letter was scribbled Dr. Erskine’s signature. He had not seen him in some time, not since before the massacre in New York and his banishing.

His stomach swelled in remembrance of the hope that Erskine had once offered: the opportunity to quell the rising tensions between China, the USSR and the United states, all offered to him because of his sense of duty and purpose. Maybe seeing Erskine again would trigger a spark in him, set the moldering ember ablaze once more.

He waited in the quiet, listening to the birds and sketching them in his notebook, listening to Bucky snore in the room adjacent. While he still viewed the vaults as fatalistic, he could not say no to another opportunity to wear his uniform and bear his shield, become the man he was before years of political brutality and senseless violence had consumed the world whole. It would be a comfort to Bucky as well.

Bucky shuffled out of the bedroom, bathrobe hanging loosely off of his shoulders. Steve was already in his slacks and shirt, cuffs neatly rolled to the elbows. He smiled, but it was somber.

“Looks like you changed your mind,” Bucky said, sitting slowly on the couch next to Steve, taking a hand in his.

Steve swallowed and folded the letter. “It will be nice to see Erskine again. And, if it comes to it, I want to get a good look at Vault 42 before hand.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s grip tightened. “What about what you said last night?”

Steve blinked. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t see them as any sort of solution—only nuclear disarmament would truly put my mind at ease. But,” Steve turned to him, knee resting on the cushion, “if it will make you feel better, knowing it’s an option, then I’ll take us there.”

Bucky draped an arm on Steve’s shoulder and pulled him close, burying his face in Steve’s chest. He sighed deeply and through the cotton twill, Steve could feel his jaw tremble. “Just gotta hope for the best, right?” Bucky said.

“Here’s to hoping," Steve said. Bucky leaned into his touch.

 

\+ + + 

 

A requisition officer led Steve and Bucky through the densely populated storehouse. Tucked in the back corner was a small iron crate. She typed in a passcode and the lid unhinged, swinging open slowly. Small white bulbs lined the top rim, shining down on Steve’s uniform. Steve reached in and unfolded the red, white and blue uniform.

“I don’t remember it being quite that pristine,” Bucky commented.

The requisition officer stood at ease next to the crate. “They were hoping you’d wear it again soon,” she said.

“Really?” Steve said, draping the armored jumpsuit over his arm. “That’s news to me.”

“Some of the higher ups may have written you off as a lost cause, sir, but believe me, they were in the minority.” She cracked a small smile. “Cleaning it was my suggestion, sir.”

Steve shook her hand. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

She blushed and knelt down. She typed in another code and the bottom portion of the crate extended outwards like a drawer. Inside of it rested Steve’s shield, polished and bright as the day it was presented to him. Steve lifted it out, testing its weight. He hadn’t truly known how much he missed its handle and sleek curves until that very moment. Bucky merely grinned, crossing his arms, watching light enter Steve’s eyes.

Steve followed the officer to the armory, where she showed him into a separate stall. In short order, Rogers emerged, helm and shield in hand, stripes running down his torso and the star emblazoned on his chest.

Bucky whistled and grinned. “Now everyone will think I’m underdressed. Show off.”

As the officer led them out, anticipation coiled tightly in his stomach and settled like a stone. He braced himself, readying his public face. Bucky walked close by his side.

The officer saluted once more and opened the door. Fort Roxbury’s walls rose high. There was no line of sight to the town in which the fort was situated; it was as if it were a world apart. Outside its walls, civilians tried to lead their lives comfortably in their cocoons, all attempting to ignore the surrounding chaos. Inside, a palpable anxiety hung on everyone’s shoulders, constantly draining.

The mood was different today, however. The soldiers and officers went about their various duties, but fervent, whispered words spread through their ranks like wildfire. Some fell out of line and others blatantly abandoned their posts, standing nearby, hands on their hips, eyes squinting in the sunlight on the beacon of Steve’s shield.

Another soldier led the two to the northern part of the base. As they walked, a crowd began to gather, trailing behind Captain America like a school of fish, proud words no longer whispered, but said loud for everyone to hear. Their commanding officers gave up on trying to wrangle them back into line, some of them even joining in the hustle.

Eventually, they reached an austere administrative building and the chatter and excitement bordered on uproar. Some had thought Captain America dead and cast off to the side and others believed that he went missing in China, but all were amazed to see the red, white and blue of his uniform and his powerful stride. Steve looked to Bucky and saw a wide smile and Steve authentically returned it. He felt ready, capable, no longer an onlooker, but an actor on the political stage. For the moment at least, the grounding order retreated to the back of his mind.

The soldiers started clamoring for a speech. Was Captain America making a comeback, they demanded. Others, the more pragmatic among them, wanted to know if things were escalating, if China or the USSR made some kind of movements overnight and if that had caused his abrupt return. Steve merely turned to address them, against the insistence that he and Bucky simply disappear into the building that stood behind them.

“My partner and I have some business to attend to,” Steve said plainly. "I can neither confirm nor deny anything about a potential return. But, if my presence here today is welcome, if you all think that I should return to the ranks, then let your commanding officers know." He waved and, at the insistence of Bucky’s pulling hand, entered the building, leaving behind the rumor-mill.

They were met by another gathering. Several decorated officers and commanders stood near them in a wreath of glistening war decorations. Steve recognized some, but not all of the men and women gathered there. He spotted the small, folded Vault-Tec letters in their vice-grips. Behind them stood eight armed guards.

Another contingency emerged from a nearby conference room. There stood Dr. Abraham Erskine and a group in lab coats. Erskine’s face was worn and lined, weary. The ensuing struggle had taken its toll. His hair, once gray like the barrel of a rifle, was all but white. In spite of this, the doctor smiled, stepping toward Steve with outstretched arms.

“Captain Rogers. It has been far too long.” Steve hugged the doctor and pat him on the back.

“It is good to see you, Erskine. Glad you’re holding up.”

He pulled away. “We all are, in our own way.” He nodded at Bucky. “Good to see you too, Barnes.”

“Hey, doctor,” Bucky said, releasing one hand to give him a small shake.

A woman stepped forward. Her skin was fair and lips pink. Her hands held her stomach, which protruded under her loose, gray trench coat.

"Ah, forgive me, Captain Rogers. I forget my manners.” He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and guided her forward. “This is my daughter, Genevieve.”

“It’s good to finally see you in person,” she said. “I’ve seen your speeches on television. Truly inspiring.” She cast a hard glare over her shoulder toward the decorated officers. “If only others were as fond of them as I am.”

Colonel Jackson frowned solemnly and stepped forward.  “Let us not get into this right now. I have more urgent matters to attend to today.” He cast a hardened, yet weary look toward Rogers. “Now, Ms. Smith, if you will kindly take the lead.”

"Yes, sir.” She was petite and her complexion was deep. She clasped her hands together and cordially smiled. “Thank you all for taking time from your busy schedules to attend our walkthrough of Vault 42. Many of your colleagues were not able to make it today, but a full list of V.I.P.s will be soon made available for your edification. If you all will follow me, we can begin the tour of the facilities.” She led them to the basement of the building. Their shoes and boots clattered loudly on the steps.

She punched in a code and a circular entrance opened before them, revealing a wide concrete tunnel. The fluorescent lights blinked on sequentially, revealing the whole length. “Running in a network beneath Fort Roxbury and Greenville, are fireproof tunnels. The layer of concrete is twenty inches thick.

"Vault-Tec installed these tunnels and Vault 42 for housing of military personnel and government scientists. With ample warning, any and all V.I.P.s can safely remain sheltered from any nuclear calamity,” she announced.

Steve clenched his jaw. Bucky met his gaze and took his hand. Their footsteps echoed through the cement hall. After a few minutes, they were stood in front of Vault 42’s hatch, which was composed of a large, imposing gear that would recede into the wall and roll to the side. On its surface was painted an elaborate, patriotic insignia, no doubt to let outsiders know of its more intimate connection with the United States government. She withdrew a metal card and held it high. “In your invitations, each of you received a copy of Vault 42’s key. In the case of emergency sealing of the vault, this card will ensure that you do not succumb to nuclear radiation.”

She turned and slipped the keycard into a slot in the console. A great rumbling sounded from inside and the vault’s hatch swung open, spinning lights on both sides heralding its opening.

“Do you have our copy?” Bucky asked.

Steve habitually reached for the pockets of his ordinary slacks, but found nothing except for padding. “We’re not going to need it today, anyway. Besides, I left them in my other pants back topside,” Steve said. Bucky’s cheeks puffed out and he expelled a loud guffaw. He cleared his throat and feigned the dour interest of the other officers as they returned their attention to their tour-guide.

She regained her composure and led them inside the security terminal. Everything was sleek and chrome and lifeless. Steve wondered what it would be like living underground. No warm sunlight or green grass. No blue sky or calm breezes, just the stifling metal echo of the vault. Another thought came to mind. What would it be like to be born here, he wondered, to never have known any of those things first hand even. The notion saddened him. He laced his fingers in Bucky’s. At least he would be there with him.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, a radio from Colonel Jackson’s belt barked to life. “Jackson, we have a situation, over.”

He ripped it from its holster. “Report Sergeant Kline, over.”

The radio cut in and out and behind bursts of static chaos and gunfire. Jackson froze. Half a minute passed like hours and the radio buzzed. “Sir, some of our forces have begun open fire on one another. It’s chaos! I’m in cover—shit!—with Winthrop and Graham. About fifteen Roxbury soldiers have us pinned down near the armory! Over.”

Jackson’s thumb nearly smashed the transmission button and he barked back, “What do they want?”

“Another group is making their way to Vault 42, sir! Hsu and Andrews neutralized two of them, but they’re coming on strong, over!”

“Secure Administration. We have too many important players down here. Losing them means losing the war. Do I make myself clear, over?” Colonel Jackson barked.

“Loud and clear, over and out.”

The guards led the men and women in lab coats to a nearby room and ordered the remaining guards to fan out and secure the perimeter. They rushed down the hallways while the scientists and doctors busily did their best to quell their panic.

Two armed guards attempted to coax Steve into another chamber to secure, but he pushed past them.

“I’m going out there,” Steve said. His arm whipped behind his back and he retrieved his shield. “You stay here and help maintain security,” he called out to Bucky. He took two steps before Bucky’s hand was firm on his shoulder.

“No way in hell you’re going up alone. I’m coming with you,” Bucky said. He walked over to a nearby weapons closet and took out a rifle and a box of rounds. His mouth hardened into a resolute line as he readied himself and his weapon. Steve knew there was nothing he could do to deter him; having Bucky cover him would do him a world of good in these unknown circumstances and he could not help but smile at Bucky’s fiery determination. Bucky followed Steve toward the security terminals near the entrance. Steve stopped when he heard Erskine behind them.

“Steve!” Erskine called out. Steve stopped in his tracks and turned him. Soldiers buzzed around them, recoiling in baffling betrayal, minds sorting through everything they’ve heard and seen, with no suspicions emerging, their sense of accomplishment and safety dissolving rapidly inside. In spite of this, Erskine’s gaze was firm and full of pride.

“Be careful, Steve Rogers,” Erskine said. “These traitors are dangerous and they know the layout the base better than you. Proceed with the utmost caution.”

“I will, Doctor,” Steve said. “Be safe.”

Erskine crossed over to his daughter and she smiled softly. “Don’t worry, Dad. He’ll come out of this just fine.”

“If we can infiltrate a nuclear reactor in Siberia, then this will be a piece of cake,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded toward Bucky and slipped on his helmet. “Let’s go.”

They sprinted down the hall, leaving Vault 42 far behind them in the concrete tunnels. They took the stairs three at a time, forgoing the elevator. They ran through the offices, passing by other soldiers taking cover behind desks and filing cabinets, ready to fire. The windows were shattered and glass littered the ground. Already the opposite walls were riddled with bullet holes and small spatters of blood.

They headed toward the gunfire. When they emerged from the administrative offices, the fort was embroiled in uproar. Gunmen shouted to one another across their newfound enemy lines, appealing to the defectors in bewildered voices. Their pleas fell on deaf ears.

Steve took cover behind a truck while Bucky scrambled on top of it. Bucky screwed on a scope onto the rifle and laid low. “All right, I’m up!” he shouted. Steve shouted an affirmative and ran out into the fray.

He rolled through a cloud of bullets, sparks flying in his wake. The other soldiers covered him. Bucky took aim at points high up on the wall. He sent bullets flying into the gunmen, sending them collapsing over the edge and crumpling into bloody piles on either side of the wall.

A body landed next to Steve and he spotted a black armband on her arm, emblazoned with an skull, red and angry, tentacles slithering from its lower jaw and spreading in insidious glee. Steve was stunned; they brought down Hydra’s research facility months ago. They took their doctors and research into custody. Some of them even joined their ranks; Arnim Zola was the first to sign up, despite Steve's objections. His compatriots believed that their capture all but disabled their insidious operations. 

“How in the word…?”

“Rogers, heads up!” Bucky shouted.

A bullet ripped into his lower abdomen, just piercing through the armor embedded in his suit. He felt a warm trickle down his side, but he paid it little mind; he would be able to walk it off later. He swung hard with his left arm, sending his shield bouncing of the rugged buildings, catching two more defectors off-guard. They crumbled to the ground. More red skulls slid into view and Steve plunged deeper into confusion.

More gunfire covered him from behind, some flying into the dead bodies. He turned around. Bucky leapt from the truck and ducked behind a group of crates. A non-hostile soldier in uniform signaled to Rogers from behind her jeep. Steve rolled behind his shield and swept low with his left leg, sending another soldier to his feet. He cracked him on the head with his shield and he was stunned.

Steve sprinted over to the . “Report, soldier,” Steve yelled over the gunfire and collective shouts.

The woman ran a hand through her thick black hair, eyes piercing. “The others began pouring out of Barracks four through six—a lot of good men and women. We had no warning—caught a lot of us by surprise. They haven’t said a word, just started shooting us.” She held up a recovered armband. “They’re all wearing this symbol.”

“That’s not important right now. Where are they pressing hardest?”

“They’re trying to make a line toward Vault 42, through Administration,” she said, pointing over his shoulder.

“Don’t let them. About thirty people are taking shelter there now and some have no combat experience whatsoever. Keep a line of covering fire. Barnes and I will head to those barracks—someone must be calling the shots there.”

She saluted. “Got it, Captain!”

He waved over to Bucky. He tumbled between crates while those in cover behind him laid a line of fire toward the barracks and the armory. “We’re going to the last row of barracks.”

“And this is a good idea because…?” Bucky said between gasping breaths.

“Just follow my lead.”

Bucky smiled mischievously. “Will do.”

The crackle of gunfire faded behind them as they ran. Bucky skidded in the gravel as four more burst from behind the corner. One swung a crackling baton toward his torso and he bat it away with the wooden butt of his rifle. Steve slammed a right hook into the tall one adjacent. Bucky jumped back, avoiding another swipe.

Steve kicked backward, boot landing firmly in the third’s chest, sending him careening into the brick behind him. The tall one grunted and thrust upwards with his knee. Steve dodged and raised his leg. He planted a boot on the assaulter’s knee and thrust downward, launching himself above the man’s head and vaulting to the assailant’s rear, grabbing the man’s shoulders in both hands and pitching him into the concrete as he landed. Bucky swung hard with his rifle, catching the last soldier in the lungs, then he reeled back and slammed a fist into the man’s jaw. He was out cold.

They wasted no time getting their bearings and pushed on toward the barracks, which was an embattlement all its own. A squadron from the barracks pinned down a group of five, whose shelter they rapidly approached. Bucky ran up to a corner, taking cover behind the brick.

“I got your back, Steve. Move in!” Bucky shouted. He retrieved a 10mm machinegun from a nearby corpse and reloaded it. He secured his rifle at his back. Bucky then made a large sweep toward the turncoats. Steve followed in its wake, taking advantage of their retreat. He slammed his shield into a gun barrel, bending it irreparably out of shape. He pitched back, sending an elbow into another’s side while Bucky made a second sweep to his right. The bullets ricocheted wildly off the barracks, catching a few of them off-guard.

The soldiers behind Steve gathered their courage and laid more fire, sending the remaining squads back toward the western wall. Bucky sprinted up to Rogers. A soldier behind them shouted. “The red-skulls have a higher up in barrack six, Captain! We’ll take it from here, you move in!”

“Got it!” Steve confirmed. The two ran to the last on the left. Another group poured out behind them from barrack five, but were immediately set upon by the loyal troops. Steve and Bucky situated themselves on either side of the door. On the count of three, Steve kicked in the door and raised his shield. Heavy machinegun fire burst from inside.

Steve briefly glimpsed three figures—one in a long black trench coat and two more in sets of power armor, older models. Steve deflected their fire and moved back behind the doorframe. He glanced down toward Bucky and saw a metallic cylinder in his hand.

“Where the hell did you get an EMP grenade?” Steve gasped out.

“Did a little shopping at the armory gift shop,” Bucky said, mouth curling into a grin. “Five-finger discount.”

“We’ll talk about this later, Buck,” Steve reprimanded. “I’ll circle the hall, moving from northwest to the southwest corner.” He heard the hiss and clanging of the armor drawing closer.

“Got it,” Bucky said.

Steve nodded and he began at full speed, moving between bunks and lockers. A heavy stream of gunfire whizzed behind him, ripping through mattresses and pillows, sending clouds of feathers dancing through the air, some igniting off of the sparks of bullets on steel lockers. He kept his shield up, guarding his head and upper torso. Steve dove through a bunk and rolled behind another, giving them a smaller and more unpredictable target.

Bucky hooked his finger through the safety pin on the grenade and it vibrated in his grip. He moved to the other corner and lined up his arc. He reeled back and hurled the vibrating canister at the figures in power-armor. A moment later, the canister burst open, sending rushing electric currents through the metal and bolts of energy dancing between them. The blast short-circuited the outdated hardware. They clanged and scraped against one another as they fell.

Steve ran behind a row of lockers. A heavy carbine rifle ripped through them like tissue paper. Bucky reached for his gun, but it clicked uselessly in his hand. He scrambled for another magazine, but found nothing. “Steve!”

“A little busy!” Steve was reaching the end of the barracks. It was a dead end. He looked up as the lockers behind him were torn to shreds in front of him. He bounded off of a fallen locker and seized an overhead lamp. He swung with his legs and hips and vaulted over the wall of lockers. He flew through the air, landing near the man’s feet in a crouching position. He propelled himself upward with the momentum and slammed a fist into the man’s jaw sending him flying back into a bunk and catching himself in its steel bars.

Steve bounded forward and grabbed the man by the collar. “What is Hydra doing at Fort Roxbury? We left their facilities burnt to ash in Russia. How did a cell survive here?”

Blood spewed from cuts in the man’s head and he threw his head back and laughed. “Cut one head off, two more grow in its place. We represent the best interests of humanity.” The man smiled wide and sinister. “After the world is cleansed and we have laid our claim, we shall rise up and Orchestrate a New Era, rid of filth like you.” The man cackled once more.

“’Cleansed?’ The hell does that mean?” Bucky demanded. Steve’s heart raced in his chest and he gripped the man tighter, lifting him higher. As the man in black reached his apex, red lights began dancing on the walls. A high siren rang out over the compound, over the violence and confusion.

“Air-raid sirens?” Steve uttered. “What have you done!?”

“The Orchestration begins now. From Vaults 40 and 42 we shall thrive.” The man bit down hard and a small audible crack met Steve’s ears. “Hail Hydra,” the man recited proudly. White foam, singed pink with blood, sputtered down the corners of his mouth. He convulsed in Steve’s grasp and fell limp. Steve dropped him on the bunk. Bucky’s hand was on his elbow, gripping hard.

Steve was stunned and gaping. The sirens faded into the background, becoming a woeful abstraction. A voice sounded over the intercom. “This is not a test, this is not a test. Please proceed to your nearest Vault or fallout shelter.”

Steve shook. All their efforts flashed before their eyes. All the attempts at diplomacy, each and every operation and mission in the blazing heat and piercing cold, every hopeful smile and crestfallen scowl dissolved into nuclear flame. He felt small again, weak and frail and ineffectual—a zero sum. Bucky’s voice pierced through, bringing him back to the matters at hand.

“We have to get back to Erskine and the others! They’re in danger!” Bucky shouted, piercing Steve’s mournful haze.

Steve shook it loose and nodded, sprinting off with Bucky’s hand in his. When they emerged the gunfire ceased and only the sirens remained, blaring heralds of a new era. Steve shouted to them, but the chaos and panic had seized them. They scuffled to the barracks, friend and foe alike, taking cover behind brick and mortar. Bodies lay left and right, some crawling, some trampled over a wave of panicked boots and left bleeding on the concrete.

Another sergeant herded them near a bunker, shouting instructions. She pointed Steve and Bucky to the administration building. “We have a shelter here, get to the vault, Captain!” Steve and Bucky ran past and the sergeant closed the heavy steel doors above her, casting her charges into hysteric darkness.

They burst through the building’s doors, past overturned desks and spilling papers, stained with blood and scorched with gunpowder. The sirens only seemed to get louder, reaching a deafening pitch. Far off in the distance, Steve thought he heard the scuffle of the civilians clambering at the fort’s gates.

Their footsteps echoed through the concrete tunnels among the swirling red lights and the serene voice of the announcer. “Please file calmly and neatly into your assigned bomb shelters. Vault-dwellers will need their identification cards. Please have them ready for presentation. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Shit!” Bucky grunted. At the far end of the tunnel, Vault 42’s gear-shaped hatch was rolling into place. Erskine and a few others were working rapidly to stop it, but to no avail. An opening only a few feet wide remained and the two ran at full speed. A screeching buzzer sounded as the door rolled at a quicker pace. Their lungs burned and hearts nearly beat out of their chests.

“Wait, stop!” Bucky shouted.

They reached the door. The overhead lights blinked off, leaving only the orange glow of the emergency lighting and the alarms. Bucky pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Steve stepped over to the console and fumbled at the buttons. It was darkened and unresponsive. He pressed a switch and yelled into the microphone. “Erskine, it’s Rogers and Barnes. What’s going on?”

Erskine’s voice sounded on the other end. “I don’t know what is happening. The switches are unresponsive. When the sirens started, the vault started sealing itself on its own!”

Bucky joined him at the console. “Is there anything you can do!? You have to let Steve in!”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Erskine responded. “I cannot get the entrance to open, it is sealed!”

Bucky turned to Rogers and grasped his arm. “What do we do? There’s no time!”

“The vault’s systems just picked up something on its radar,” they heard Jackson shout. “My god…It’s red all over the map. China, Russia, USA! Everyone’s firing their missiles, Jesus Christ in Heaven!”

“Time?” Steve shouted.

“You have eight minutes!” Jackson shouted. “Goddammit, it’s the end of the fucking world.”

“The controls still aren’t responding,” Erskine said.

The line went quiet. Bucky pulled Steve close, eyes wide.

After another moment, Erskine’s voice sounded once more over the sirens and alarms. “There is another option, though you may not have a choice in the manner.”

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“These tunnels are fireproofed, but they will not protect you against the radiation. The cryogenics labs are underground and the chambers are equipped to handle radiation and other environmental hazards.”

“What are you suggesting?” Steve demanded.

“Activate the chambers—they have a timer, they can keep you safe until the ambient radiation is safe enough to traverse. The life support system keep your heart beating. It’s the only way, you won’t survive five minutes in these tunnels once the radiation seeps in.” Erskine’s voice was shaking.  “Head southeast through the tunnels and you will find the labs.”

“Steve…” Bucky implored.

Steve made a split second decision. The bomb shelters were all sealed by now and no one would be willing to open them. He looked toward Bucky and he knew what he had to do.

“Erskine…thank you for everything. Be safe. Take care of your daughter,” Steve said into the microphone.

Erskine was quiet for a moment. “I will, Captain…Now go, there isn’t much time.”

Steve clutched Bucky’s arm and his wound and started down the hallway. They orange lights began to dim and only the red alarm lights lit their path. They flashed over signs on the wall. Steve spotted the entrance and burst through the hatch.

The labs were empty, lunches and cups of coffee were abandoned and chairs littered the floors. The two burst through three more doors and they reached the cryogenic chambers. One room held a larger pod and the second held a backup. Dozens of pipes crisscrossed on the ceilings and walls. Wires ran from it to nearby consoles and controls, which were still lit in spite of the dimmed lights.

“You take that one,” Bucky said. “I can set my own.”

Steve tugged on his arm and led him to the second one down. “I’m taking care of you first, Bucky.”

“Steve, no—“

“Come on,” Steve said. He led Bucky to the second room. They paused in the doorway. The pod’s interior was lit with white lights. The smooth steel of its interior curved around like an egg. Bucky’s hand clamped onto his. Steve led him to the cryogenics pod. The light danced on Bucky’s face, reflecting in pooling tears that slid down his cheeks. Steve removed his helmet and took his face in both hands.

Bucky held him close. Steve felt Bucky’s heart beating through his jumpsuit. Steve wrapped his arms around his shoulders, squeezing for as long as time permitted. They parted and Bucky laid an austere, chaste kiss on his cheek, running a hand through Steve’s hair. “I love you,” Bucky said. “You know that, right?”

“Bucky…of course I do.” Steve pressed his mouth on Bucky’s in a greedy, mournful kiss. “This isn’t goodbye…we don’t give up that easy.”

Bucky grinned one last time then cast his eyes downward. He willfully pried himself from Steve’s grasp and he stepped into the pod. There was only room for one.

He stepped over to the console. Bucky’s fists shook at his sides as he turned around. Steve accessed the controls, setting the safety parameters. It would unseal once the radiation levels were safe enough for them.  There was no telling how long he’d be under, but Bucky would be safe in cryogenic suspension. The glass slowly lowered itself over him, separating the pod from the outside, from war, from radiation, from Steve.

“Steve, listen” he said. His breath fogged the glass; the process had begun. Bucky’s hand was planted on the glass. “Those bombs are gonna fall.” He wiped his eyes with his left hand. “I don’t got hope for humanity, but I got hope for you,” he said, voice wavering. “You have to make it—you still have so much left to give.”

Steve pressed his hand against Bucky’s, feeling his extremities go cold. Weariness and sleep set in on Bucky’s features as a fine mist filtered into the pod. The glass was ice and the frost slowly obscured Bucky’s face from sight.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Steve said, jaw trembling from cold and deep apprehension. “That’s a promise.” The glass fogged up further, ice crystals forming on the foggy expanse.

“I love you,” Steve said. A cloud of freezing air clouded the pod and Bucky was no longer to be seen. Steve’s hand curled into a fist. He turned away from the pod and walked to the primary chamber.

The world swayed under his feet and his senses slowly left him. The red lights flickered on the walls, but they no longer registered. His arms and legs were suddenly sluggish. Every skirmish and struggle at last set in and he grew weary under their formidable weight. He knew that above him, the world was bathed in fire and destruction, each of humanity’s failings igniting the landscape, sending clouds of toxic hate into the skies. Every one of his failings flashed before his eyes, but he smothered it, thinking only of survival.

This wasn’t the end, but Steve still recoiled at the thought humanity’s next horrific chapter. He addressed the set of computers next to the primary chambers. Red alerts flashed on their screens as he entered the commands and parameters. The chamber hissed open and the lights bloomed around its upper rim. A light blinked on to the right of the chamber. It was primed.

Steve slowly stepped in, gathering his courage and tenacity, jaw set in firm purpose. He turned around, clutching his shield in both hands, readying himself for the deep sleep.

The earth rumbled ceaselessly above. Behind the glass, humanity crumbled into ashes. The mist slowly issued from the upper channels of the pod. Suddenly he felt numbness take him. He closed his eyes as the frost descended upon his extremities. He thought of Bucky’s face.

Then the world went dark.

 

\+ + + 

 

A small green light switched on, flickering in the dark. “Sleep term complete. Commencing thaw,” a small, tinny voice announced to the emptiness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little sad, so I decided to throw in some smuttiness at the last second.


	13. A Man You Stop Part I

 

All he felt were their eyes on him, saddened, austere. Steve sat on the stairs near the large hatch of Vault 42, eyes cast to the shadows. It took some coaxing to get him out of the bathroom, but once he was out, the tale of that day bore ceaselessly out like a confession. His eyes ran in and out of the vault’s metalwork as he spoke, but all he saw was Bucky’s face behind the cryo chamber’s door, his jaw clenched in longing and uncertainty.

Once he finished he was still. The group stood in a wreath behind him, awestruck and quiet. None of them were sure of what to say. Steve stood. He felt the room skew in his direction. He clenched his shaking hands and retreating from the wall of eyes, brushing past Natasha.

He walked aimlessly, past the dust and scattered papers, past the bright labs, and empty living quarters and to the cafeteria. It was modeled after a pre-war diner, with bright red booths and a checkered floor. Smooth chrome sped around the counters and tables, which were stacked high with papers and files.

He picked empty table near the center and sat. He imagined Bucky seated in one of the plush booths, cup of steaming chamomile tea in hand and a warm smile. Before Steve's eyes, his hair grew long and ragged and his eyes distant and dead. Metal sprouted over his left arm, concealing and suffocating it until a bright red star bloomed on his shoulder.

“Steve,” a voice said.

He winced and turned in his seat. In the doorway stood Peggy Carter. Her lips were drawn tight into a worried smile. She had changed into a pencil skirt and white blouse. Her approach was cautious, yet steady.

“May I?” she asked, hand on the rim of the chair opposite Steve. He slowly nodded, lowering his hands from his jaw to the table.

In the corner of the cafeteria, a stall blinked on and the door swung open revealing a wall of blinking lights. A Serve-O-Tron robot rambled over to their table, claw hands whirring in their sockets and its steel cranium roaming back and forth, looking for a master to serve.

“Can I get sir and madam a refreshing beverage?” it asked in a tinny, halting voice.

“A glass of water, thank you,” Peggy said. She looked over to Steve.

After a pause, he asked for a cup of tea. The Serve-O-Tron marched off and left the two of them alone.

“Dr. Erskine always regretted what happened that day. Not being able to get the vault doors open for you…nearly killed him. He never forgave himself.”

“How do you know?” Steve muttered.

Their server returned, setting the glass in front of Peggy and delicately clasping the handle of Steve’s teacup between its metal claws. The robot seemed to sense the growing tension and took its leave, sealing itself in the booth in the corner of the cafeteria.

“Dr. Erskine was my fifth-great-grandfather and Genevieve my great-great-great-great-grandmother.” She took a drink of water.

“After the nuclear conflict, he considered himself a failure…so he poured himself into his research. Some say that it consumed him whole—that he withdrew almost completely in his attempts to recreate the Serum. He wanted to help bring order to whatever chaos erupted up above.”

Steve thought of Abraham leaning over his cot at the hospital, eyes filled to the brim with hope, all because Steve was a punk who didn’t know when to quit.

“What was life like for them, not knowing what was going on outside?”

Peggy sighed and ran a hand through her hair and reached over to an adjacent table, grabbing a diary. 

“In a word: terrifying. All the diaries and documents are still here for your perusal, if you so desire, but they all blend together. They would hear terrifying sounds above them, as if,” she flipped through a stack of papers, “‘the planet itself were roaring in reply to the warheads.’” She set the diary down. “They didn’t know what was worse: being the only ones left, or the thought of what remained in the fallout.”

“Did Erskine ever get out of here? Did he ever see the wasteland?”

“No. It probably would have killed him, seeing what science, his lifelong pursuit, had left of the world.” Peggy paused. “But, in time, my great-grandmother, Eugenia Carter, would lead an expedition out into the wastes. Her family was military, or at least descended from military." She took another drink.

“Nothing prepared them for what they saw. There’s only so much training simulations can accomplish, after all.”

“What happened when they left the vault?” Steve asked, interest mounting.

“They discovered that they weren’t alone, of course. Unfortunately for Eugenia, vicious raiders served as their first taste of humanity outside the vaults.” Her gaze was low and wistful, while she spoke she was traced her finger along the table's shining surface, as if illustrating a memory Steve could not share.

“It was chaos. According to her reports, the slavers hauled off several of her men...They were never heard from again. Others in the vault panicked, thinking that they would soon fall victim to them—and they weren’t entirely wrong. The raiders had discovered some of the secret doors to the service tunnels underground.”

She had his full attention. “They didn’t get in, did they?”

She shook her head and chuckled. “No, of course not. These tunnels were built to withstand hellfire and the concussive force of the bombs, after all.” Her face fell. “That’s not to say their presence did not shift the perspective of my great-grandmother and her neighbors.”

She pressed a button on the side of the table and the Serve-O-Tron rumbled over to them. “Coffee, black.” She looked to Steve, but he politely declined. Soon, she was stirring her coffee with a small spoon, not caring that some droplets made their way to the metal bowl of artificial sugar.

“Eugenia’s men were so easily overwhelmed. Many hadn’t fired live rounds before that day and I doubt a lot of them hit their mark. Eugenia started demanding more weapons from the lab to combat the raiders above. A spit-fire, my great-grandmother. Eventually my great-grandfather Christian Erskine began looking into Abraham Erskine’s work on ‘Project Rebirth.’” She took a look around the room. The quiet stretched on as her eyes ran over the empty seats. “He was brilliant, no doubt, but a bit young to handle it on his own.

“Prior to that point the labs of Vault 42 had long since abandoned Dr. Erskine’s plans to reboot Project Rebirth as well as any plans to find you in the cryo labs. They were a pragmatic bunch, more concerned with our water supply and underground gardens than lost legends.”

The metal spoon clinked off the sides of her glass, ringing in the near-empty cafeteria. Until that moment, Steve had failed to notice the cobwebs and emptiness of Vault 42, its utter lack of life. He imagined groups of people in white lab coats traveling back and forth among the tables, comparing data and graphs, trying again and again to create a savior, their own Captain America. He looked to Peggy. Again, her face was solemn and quiet and knowing, as if she anticipated what question would follow next.

“Vault 42…not everyone on the roster made there before the bombs dropped, but obviously some of them had children.” Steve focused on her face. “Where are the others? Did they settle out on the wasteland?”

She straightened up and resignation washed over her face, erasing every wrinkle of doubt, then cleared her throat, as if she were about to begin a rehearsed speech.

“There are no others. Dr. Banner and I are all that remain of Vault 42.” She gently pursed her hands and kneaded a worn bandana in her fingers. “Abraham Erskine’s research had gone untouched for so long and Christian, bless his soul, failed to grasp the nuances of the science behind it. Results were...unstable.”

“What happened?”

“Eugenia volunteered, just as you did hundreds of years ago. She felt so guilty about losing so many of her soldiers. And…it worked, to an extent. She managed to take out the slavers practically on her own, but she grew more dangerous over time—erratic and sometimes violent. She…died of complications mere weeks later.

“Something was amiss in Christian’s rendition of the serum. It wasn’t limited only to Eugenia. Something spread to the others.” She lit a cigarette and blew two rings. “It took several attempts for Josephine Carter, my grandmother, and Christian to conceive a child. At first they thought it was a low sperm count, but his work with the new serum slowly sterilized the whole vault.”

“Everyone became infertile?”

She nodded solemnly. “They called us flukes, me and Bruce. No one called it a miracle.”

"So you and Bruce were the only children? All because of the Serum?”

“We were thick as thieves—sort of inevitably, as there were no other children to play with. Our only neighbors were the elderly, who, one by one, took their leave of us.” She snuffed out her cigarette.

Steve stared at his glass, unable to meet Peggy’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She chuckled. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. We did all of this to ourselves.”

“Did what?”

“The botched-up Serum, the bombs, the Great War and the Resource War before that. We’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t we? Then, in spite of everything, Bruce went dug deeper, after everyone was gone, and worked on the Serum, ending up the way he is now.”

“What are you talking about?”

She smiled sadly. “You’ve already seen him in action, Rogers. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the green giant who helped you to safety.” She dismissed the Serve-O-Tron back to his cell. “His version of the serum was the most bombastic.”

"He knew how dangerous the Serum was, but he took the risk anyway.”

“It was my fault,” Peggy said quietly. “I had gone out exploring by myself and stumbled on a human trafficking outfit in the wasteland. Took out half of them on my own but I was captured.” She put a finger to her lips and thoughtfulness cast its spell on her. “I can’t remember whether they were to eat me or sell me…”

“And he took the serum to save you from them,” Steve said.

“He was always the pugnacious one, even when we were kids. I guess The Hulk isn’t so different from Bruce, now that I think about it.”

Before Peggy could go on, a great clang at the door. Sam was in the frame, breathing heavily. “There you two are!”

“What is it, Sam?” Steve asked, pushing out of his chair.

He took another breath and gestured wildly toward the infirmary. “Your friend, Bruce? He found Fury. He’s alive.”

 

\+ + + 

 

Sharp banging vibrated against the door. Tony jumped awake, grabbing wildly for the plasma pistol and flash grenade on his nightstand and finding neither. His room was pitch black, save for the soft blue glow of the arc-reactor. A lone mattress shoved in the corner served as the chamber’s only furnishing. He ran his greasy hand over his face and sighed deeply. It was only his fourth day in the pit, but the minutes slowed to a draining, nightmarish crawl.

“You have two minutes, Stark,” a gruff voice boomed behind the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Tony growled back. He stood up and his swollen joints creaked and sagged. He could still feel the metal cuffs around his wrist. He ran his hand around his neck. He hissed and started. Groaning, he pulled on his jumpsuit which he had deposited in the corner only a few hours prior.

He felt the heavy bolts being undone at the door. Three armed guards came in and did a sweep of the room. The beams of their flashlights filtered in to every corner as another guard pat down Tony.

“I’ll say this one more time: if I can’t go in or out without five of you sweeping the room and my asshole, how in the world would I have gotten a weapon in the interim?” He regretted his quip almost immediately. The butt of a rifle whipped sharply and struck him across the shoulder blade, sending pangs down his entire right side.

“All right, all right, I’m moving! Jeez.” They surrounded him and led him up three flights of stairs, past a dozen other cells, a makeshift armory and up to the grand arena of the warehouse, where the vertibird prototype had already begun to take shape. Soldering irons and murmuring voices echoed throughout the space.

The soldier in front of him saluted up into the rafters where stood Alexander Pierce.

“Good morning, Mr. Stark. I trust you had a good night’s rest,” his voice echoed.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He checked his watch. “You know, I always perform best under extreme mental and physical duress. No way in hell sleep deprivation could do any harm to your project.”

“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Stark. However, time is of the essence. The people grow restless, what with so many outlaws on the loose,” Pierce answered back. Tony could not bear to look at him; something was unraveling inside of Pierce, or perhaps another roadblock had asserted himself. As his grip over the project tightened, his grip on his sanity loosened.

Tony, under the scrutiny of the faceless guards, reluctantly began his work. He received reports from Pierce’s engineering team, corrected their many errors and delegated their side projects, always with an eye over his shoulder.

This wasn’t like his days stuck in a cave, toiling tirelessly under the ruthless orders of his former compatriots in the weapons cartel. Unlike Big Lucy, Pierce wasn’t out to make a quick buck. They were a harder lot to fool. In spite of their shortcomings, the engineering team from Hillside was smart enough to know if Tony diverged from the stacks of blueprints, smart enough to know that he could slap together a potent rifle from the vertibird’s spare parts if they gave him any slack or diverted their gaze.

There was little he could do to fight it. The project was coming together fast. He felt as if he were treading on the field of mines like Steve and Natasha did so recently. Another two days and they would be ready for the trial flights—maybe even sooner than that. Then they would be ready, Tony thought, to start their eugenic pogrom. He fumbled and dropped a wrench and its clatter rang through the warehouse.

He looked up to the rafters. Pierce was animated, something had him agitated, but Tony knew he couldn’t get his hopes up. Pierce had lost some of his diplomatic veneer—dictators often did so. He knew he had to make a plan of his own, anything to stop this bird from going up, but the exhaustion had dried up his wells.

Fortunately, an opportunity cropped up when one of the junior engineers noticed a missing sequence in the construction in the rear thrusters. Tony knew just where they were.

“Pierce!” Tony shouted up to the rafters. “We have a slight problem.”

Pierce raised the bullhorn. “How slight?”

Tony donned a shit-eating grin. “Well, if you don’t need the damn thing airborne, then it’s not a huge problem I suppose.”

“I’m listening.” Tony could feel his acrid, accusing stare from his spot on the work floor.

Tony pointed to a pile of scrap on a blue tarp near the rear of the vessel. “Those. You and your buddies forgot the blue prints for the rear propulsion systems as well as the fuel injectors for the starboard lines.”

“What are you talking about? We seized every blueprint in your labs,” Pierce boomed. Tony could sense his ire being directed to the whole floor instead of merely himself. Good, that meant that he was piqued and beginning to fret.

“Haven’t you heard of digital storage, your Majesty? It’s all the rage these days. My buddy JARVIS has the remaining prints.” Tony placed his hands on his hips. “You want this done right, I’ll need you to fetch him for me.”

"Clever ruse, Stark, but I’m not going to retrieve your personal bodyguard.”

“H-he’s right sir,” an engineer haltingly interjected from beneath the vertibird. “We don’t have the proper schematics for the rear propulsion systems...”

“But that shouldn't be a problem if all you want is a paperweight,” Tony added.

PIerce ran his hand through his sandy hair. Tony grinned. He was sore all over—welts and burns from the previous days of captivity still throbbed and pulsed all over his body—but he felt a rush of relief when Pierce lowered the megaphone and whispered commands to a nearby associate.

“You’ll have your…storage device, Stark,” Pierce said. Tony leaned against a nearby workbench. “I did not say you could rest. Get started on the your other tasks.” He nodded toward a guard in black armor up on the rafters. She dutifully raised her rifle, placing Tony in her sights.

“Right. Got it.” He picked up a wrench and began to toil once more. He wondered if DUM-E made it to Rogers, and, more importantly, if they were still alive. Clint would be getting the worst of it now. Friends of Steve Rogers, in Pierce’s eyes, were just as bad as the main article. No doubt, he had his men scouring the wasteland in search of the red, white and blue.

He would just have to improvise for now. JARVIS, like himself, was a resourceful one, and maybe, just maybe, he’d have a shot at escaping this mess. Tony chuckled softly, making a nearby engineer wary and careful. This must have been what Steve Rogers felt like all those years ago, Tony thought, while he was trying to dismantle the war machine. He looked to the other engineers. They saw the mounting instability in Pierce. He wondered if they had faith in their censuses.

Tony shook the thought from his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand, biding his time and planning his disruptions.

 

\+ + + 

 

“You son of a bitch,” Natasha said. “We went looking for you. Why didn’t you stay where Rogers left you? We all thought you were dead.” Her face was inches away from Fury's, stark and austere.

Steve and Peggy rounded the corner to the infirmary, followed by Sam. Clint looked on from his cot with awe and disbelief while Natasha tried as best she could to contain her anger and relief both. Fury groaned as Bruce tended to his wounds.

“I saw the gunfight all the way from Roger’s hidey-hole. If you were in my spot, Natasha, would you wait for all those lights to come find you? I would hope not.” Fury winced as he sat up in bed, never breaking eye contact.

“And, according to Clint, you’ve all been running around with your heads cut off. What the hell were _you_ thinking going directly to Hillside? You realize how asinine that plan sounds, right?” Fury said.

She punched him lightly in the arm and Fury grunted.

“We made it out all right,” she said.

“ _I_ didn't think it was asinine,” Clint chimed in from his cot.

Fury moved his attention from Natasha to Steve and Peggy. He smirked.

“Long time no see, Carter.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Nick. Up close anyway,” she said. She looked on him like an old friend. Steve saw fondness bloom across her features: in her soft smile and the relaxed gait she took as she approached his cot.

“And it looks like you’re no worse for the wear, Rogers,” Fury said.

“You too, Nick. I knew it would take more than a few bullet to put you down.”

“Damn right,” Fury said. He lit a cigarette. Bruce shook his head, but stopped once he met Fury’s hard stare. Fury took a long drag and blew a funnel of smoke.

Bruce shook his head. "If just one of these bullets had hit you two inches higher, you would have be dead now." 

Clint grunted. “You don’t get as old as Fury without taking a few shots every now and then.” Fury cast him a stern glance and Clint smiled back sheepishly.

“What do we have in the works now?” Fury asked, returning to the grave matters at hand.

“We need to get to the prototype,” Steve said as he dug in his pockets and retrieved the hard drives. “Tony gave us a fighting chance.”

Natasha turned back to Fury. “He wrote a program to kill the bird’s targeting systems.”

Fury smiled wide and Steve’s jaw nearly dropped. “Always knew that paranoid fucker would pull through. Where is he now?”

“Pierce has him,” Clint grunted. “He must be at the warehouse Yvonne showed you. Can’t think of another place where they’d build a death machine like that.”

“So it sounds like we have the makings of a plan then,” Fury said, taking another drag.

“Tony said that we’d need to merge these with the main computer onboard and the grounded computers,” Natasha said. “That way, its navigational systems would hinder its flight and the targeting systems would fail to go online, essentially neutering it.”

“Excellent. Then we can take control of the vessel and—”

Steve gripped the rails of the cot, looming over Fury. “No,” Steve asserted, jaw firming and stance getting wide. “We are not salvaging it. I can’t allow that.”

Fury blew smoke from his flaring nostrils. “You mean we let all this effort go to waste? This prototype is the find of a lifetime, Rogers. If we let this go—”

Natasha stood by Steve, her hand gripping his forearm. “He’s right, Nick. It’s too dangerous. The prototype can be abused and it can easily fall into the wrong hands.”

“You say that like that hasn't happened already,” Sam said. “Even so, just the thought of something like that just hanging out gives me a real bad feeling. I say we finish this once and for all.”

Fury snuffed out his cigarette. His chest swelled to counter them, but he winced and held his side. He was getting old, perhaps careless. If he let Pierce’s forces move beneath him so silently, there was no telling what the rest of the jackals of the wasteland would do once they were all drained from the imminent conflict. He furrowed his brow and deeply considered the ashes that had gathered on his bedspread. He sighed.

“I guess that settles that,” he said bitterly.

A great weight fell from Steve’s shoulders. “Thank you, Fury. It’s for the best.”

A wave of relief swept over them, but before it could settle in, Peggy asked, “What’s our first step?”

Natasha stepped toward her. “Tony said we had to plug these into a Vault-Tec computer to complete his program. We were going to compile them in Hillside,” her eyes darted over to Steve, “but certain externalities prevented us from doing so.”

Peggy smiled. “You’ve come to the right place, then,” she said, brushing a hand against Fury’s arm. “We’ll be back. Patch them up well, Bruce. We need them in fighting shape.”

Bruce ran a hand through his short curly hair. “Easier said than done.” Fury wouldn’t have any of it however. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and limped after them, saying that he would rest when he was dead. Peggy only smirked and motioned for the three to follow.

She led them through the labyrinthine halls to the main processing boards of Vault 42. Steve looked to Natasha. She wanted to say something, but withheld it. Steve could tell that it took great effort to do so. Instead, she questioned Peggy.

“Why did it take so long for you to intervene?” Natasha demanded. “These tunnels look like they run throughout this sector. Did you only intend to spectate?”

Peggy stopped in her tracks and swung around to Natasha. “I was biding my time. Up until this now, Pierce has had all the citizens of S.H.I.E.L.D. eating out of the palm of his hand with his fear campaign. If I had stepped in and started lobbing accusations at him, he wouldn’t have needed his personal guard to take me out; the rabble would have done so on their own.”

“Good point,” Steve said. Peggy continued leading them. “But you had to have been working on something, Peggy.”

“You are correct,” Peggy said, her boots landing heavily on the iron grates. “Bruce and I began a campaign of our own. Hillside had been investigating the ruins of Fort Roxbury for some time. We were there to stifle their efforts.”

“You and Bruce wiped some of the pre-war computers,” Fury said. “Stark said that he found Vault-42’s fingerprints in some of the systems Natasha investigated.”

“So you were buying us time,” Steve concluded.

“That was the idea, yes,” Peggy said as she led them down a flight of stairs. “However, we didn’t anticipate Vault 40 having so much of Project Insight’s groundwork in their own systems.”

“What made you jump in now?” Fury said. “You were quiet for a long damn time.”

“I knew Pierce would dismiss the illusion at some point, as tyrants so often do,” Peggy said, unlocking another door. “I knew with that kind of weaponry, he would stop playing and people would see him as he really is: power hungry. He is actually more vulnerable now, without popular support; he only needed their resources to find the remaining components and feed his men.”

"And if Coulson hadn’t woken me?” Steve asked.

"That goes back to their resource-funneling scheme. What better mascot for Project Insight than one of America’s greatest heroes? And what better assassin to have at their beck and call?” Her eyes softened as she considered Steve and his sudden quiet. “I’m sorry, Steve. I forget myself.” Her slip only cemented his resolve.

Eventually, they reached a large sealed chamber. Peggy typed in a passcode and the formidable hatch slid open. The computers lined the walls, blinking and whirring, keeping the Vault 42 alive and breathing. She led Natasha to the center console and she took her seat. Steve handed her the hard drives and she got to work.

She inserted the drives and the computer read them, displaying lines and lines of code, parsing and organizing, until a neat list of items presented itself.

“Diary entries?” Peggy asked. “Whose are they?”

“Let’s find out,” Natasha murmured.

The first entry dated back to 2067 and they ran all they way to 2077. The entries were terse and brief, as if the writer had trouble organizing his thoughts.

“Arnim Zola,” Steve stated, letting ichor come through in his tone. “I should have known.”

Back in the 21st century, when asked, Steve Rogers would have characterized Zola as suspicious at best. He had given himself over to the U.S. after a raid he and Bucky led on a laboratory in Siberia.

It was a typical operation. In the early days of the war with China, he and Steve raided many laboratories hidden in the Soviet Union, putting a stop to any work that could have made its way to China. Bucky had said he smelled their acrid labs for weeks afterward.

Upon capture, Zola professed to have loyalty for neither China nor the USSR, but instead claimed that he worked only in the name scientific progress.

“I go where the most promising projects travel,” Zola had said. In exchange for diplomatic immunity, he would go on to publicly denounce his work with the USSR and China and pledge his efforts to the United States. In so doing, he had gained the trust of Steve’s superiors.

He was then integrated in labs in D.C., under heavy guard, but the diaries say otherwise; instead, they assert that he had won over several of his compatriots. “We are to build a new dynasty,” Zola wrote, “One unified in purpose and free of the political toil of today’s unworthy institutions."

“Like a beautiful parasite,” Zola wrote in an entry dating 2072, “our agents and our allies lay in waiting. Dr. Erskine suspects something lies in the shadows, but says nothing. He cannot risk it and he knows it. My hand in Project Rebirth, after all, would be one which would be sorely missed.”

A spare entry in 2077 caught Steve’s eye. In it, he detailed the process through which he secured a place in Vault 40; “It has come to this, after so many years of useless, monotonous strife,” Zola wrote. “We are to cultivate ourselves underground. How foolish they are. Cut off one head, two grow in its place.” It was the last entry.

Steve’s mouth was a hard line. Natasha opened file after file, scanning Zola’s entries, detailing his treacheries and successes. Steve clenched his fists. Zola was responsible for the raids that day—for the violence and bloodshed between people who were formerly allied and for the monster growing in the warehouse. He wondered how he had gotten to them, how deep Arnim Zola’s deception bled. He shrugged it off. What he put into motion had to be dealt with, no matter its origin.

In another few minutes, Natasha retrieved the drives, which were hot with effort.

 

\+ + + 

 

Steve sat on a crumbling wall hands clenched firmly in his lap, back straight and shoulders back, as if in meditation. In his palm he clutched the metal keycard. He was sure to scatter sand over the tunnel doors, keeping Peggy and Bruce’s secret.

They had outlined their plan after much debate. Now there was little else to do except wait for the time to strike. Peggy offered them all dinner—“Authentic Vault cuisine”—but Steve begged off, saying he wasn’t hungry. So he sat, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

The heavy iron doors creaked slowly open behind him. Steve kept his eyes on the dying lights. He knew what was coming. All through their deliberations, they had kept one thing off of the table: what to do with James Buchanan Barnes. Though he met Natasha’s gaze frequently at the round Overseer’s table, she never brought it up, but instead mulled it over, as if digesting a bitter pill. Sandy steps drew closer.

“Mind if I take a seat?” Sam said.

“Be my guest.”

He was quiet for a long time, perhaps waiting for Steve to talk on cue. After dusk had all but consumed the sky, Steve was able to spot an unfamiliar glimmer of lights. The warehouse was fully lit, the atrocity unfolding within.

“I didn’t come out here for chit-chat,” Sam started. “We need to talk about your friend. About James.”

“Bucky.”

“Bucky...yeah,” Sam turned to him. His eyes were glassy and stern, his mouth in a small concentrated dot. “I know this is hard to hear—believe me, it’s just as hard saying this to you.” He took a deep, considering breath. “Bucky…he’s not a man you save,” Sam seemed to turn to stone, as if austerity alone would convince Steve. “He’s a man you stop.”

The card nearly crumpled beneath his grip. He looked Sam straight in the eye. “He recognized me, Sam. He’s in there somewhere. I know it.”

“But how deep would we have to dig? How many would get hurt or killed in the attempt, Steve?”

Steve frowned. Sam sighed deeply.

“We have to stick to our plan, Steve. If your friend gets in the way…” Sam fell quiet.

Steve wiped his eyes, which were still focused on the glimmering lights in the distance. From here, winding between the dry winds, he could almost make out the sounds of hardware and construction emanating from their fort. Another brush in the sand.

“I can make him remember, Sam. I know I can.” He turned to Sam with newfound tenacity. “If my memory can return that quickly, his can too.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” Natasha said quietly behind them.

“Right,” Steve said, standing up to face her. “Neither of us know one way or the other.”

She crossed her arms. “He will interfere, Steve. That much _is_ certain. You have to be ready to confront him. You can’t let him distract you from the greater mission. A lot is riding on this, Captain.”

Steve braced himself against a nearby brick wall. Dust floated down from above. “I know, Natasha. But he’s…”

Her face softened into pity. “He’s a _weapon_ , Steve. He’s been trained to follow Hydra’s orders and no one else’s.” Her brows furrowed and she shut her eyes, leaning against the brick. “A lot of good people have died at his hand,” she said, her voice wavering. “My mother among them.”

Steve gave her a long reflective gaze. He could feel the pulse of her hurt pounding through her.

“’Blame the man, not the weapon,’ isn’t that what you said?” Steve said low after a pause.

“Steve,” Sam hissed. She was silent for a long time, unsure what to say, how to confound her own words—her mantra.

“He is a weapon. I know that, Nat. But not willingly. Bucky would never submit to that. I just,” Steve looked into the gravel. “I just have to make him remember. And I think I know a way, if you want to help.” He held out an appeasing hand.

Natasha lowered her arms and met his eyes. She reached out and took his hand. A small smirk played across her lips.

“It looks like I can’t stop you from trying. What do you need me to do?” She said, readying herself for action.

 

\+ + + 

 

Natasha returned some hours later. Steve was still awake, limbs refusing to slumber. Instead he was cocked like a rifle, ready to fire. He heard the main entrance creak open—it was impossible to miss, even all the way in the barracks. He swung his legs over the side of his cot and pulled on a spare Vault 42 jumpsuit.

“Where is he?” a familiar voice demanded.

"In the infirmary. Follow me,” Natasha said.

Steve turned around the corner. Phil stood in the terminal near Natasha. Beneath his arm was a canvas duffle bag, worn and faded. Deep purple lines rimmed his eyes and a slight tremor floated around his fingers. One eye was just emerging from a deep, purple welt.

“Steve. Thank god,” Phil pulled him into a tight one-armed hug. “Everyone’s been saying they got you. I knew you wouldn’t go down that easy.”

Steve knew something was eating at Phil, so he did not detain him any longer. Phil pushed the bag into Steve’s arms and followed Natasha. Steve joined them through the winding corridors. Natasha punched in another code and the infirmary door hissed open.

“Clint!” Phil said, racing over. He stood near the head of the cot, stroking Clint’s forearm. Clint slowly blinked awake. He was much improved over the course of the day. He broke out into a big, dizzy grin.

“Phil? Izz-that you?” he slurred.

“Yes, it’s me.” Phil sank to his knees and buried himself in Clint’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Clint, I’m so sorry. I should have stayed with you, but I was so caught up in the project—I wasn’t thinking straight. Oh god, what have they done to you?”

Clint hushed him, stroking Phil’s head. “A lotta shit, but I’m better now. Not the worse beating I’ve ever had.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Phil said.

Clint chuckled softly. “It’s not your fault. No way in hell I’d blame you for all this.” He made a wide circle with his hands, pointing to his cuts and bruises. “This is all on Pierce’s cronies.”

Phil craned his head and looked into Clint’s eyes. “I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you, Clint. You know that right?”

Clint nodded slowly, running a hand through Phil’s thinning hair. “...Looks like you’ve had a rough go of it too,” Clint said, pulling him closer.

Phil scoffed. “Nothing like you’ve had, Clint.” He turned to Natasha and Steve, feeling their silent inquiry.

“After I let you two go, the militia at Endsville brought me in for questioning, saying that I aided and abetted wanted terrorists. They believed I knew where you were hiding out. When I told them they didn’t know anything...well, you know the rest.” Phil winced slightly as he stood up again.

“Phil…” Steve said. Phil held up a assuaging palm.

“Eventually they believed me, at least enough to let me go free,” he added. He reluctantly let go of Clint and crossed over to Steve. “Wouldn’t have told them anything even if I did know.”

“You’re a good man, Phil.” Steve wrapped him around in a light embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

Phil smiled and took the duffle bag from Steve’s arms. “I don’t think Hydra would ever expect this.” He reached in and pulled out the Captain’s signature, armored jumpsuit.

“I have to admit, I’m more excited than I should be about this. This will be my big chance to see Captain America in action.” Phil uncoiled the suit, which was almost as vibrant as it was over two hundred years ago. Steve felt the familiar fabric and something inside of him lit up. Phil pinched it by the shoulders and held it up to Steve’s chest, brimming with pride and excitement.

 

\+ + +

 

At sunrise, the air all throughout Vault 42 had shifted. As Natasha sharpened her blades and Clint strung his bow. Fury loaded his magnum and Peggy pulled on her boots while. Across the room, Sam slid into his flak-jacket and Phil tallied their ammo and Bruce their medicine. Steve felt a familiar burden lower itself onto him as they approached what seemed to be a new crux in the history of humanity. Behind the curtain, Steve pulled on his jumpsuit, buckling straps, tightening nylon bands and zipping up the front seam until the red and white stripes encased his torso and the white star shined like a beacon on his chest. Slowly he stepped from behind the curtain.

He felt their eyes on him, beholden and proud.

 


	14. A Man You Stop Part II

He was up before the dawn. Steve was still asleep, chest slowly rising and falling. Bucky crept to the bathroom. He turned on the tap, letting the water run hot and fog the mirror. He rubbed his fingers over his temples then grabbed the razor near the sink, running it under the stream and bringing it up to his cream-slathered face. It was strange to him how something so innocuous became burdensome and somehow important overnight.

He and Steve talked until dawn rose dilute over the city, casting everything in ghostly blues and grays. His enlistment was still somehow a fiction then—a story, a figment of his imagination, something he couldn’t quite believe. Even when he was shipping off to boot camp, the weight of it had not settled in his stomach.

Bucky wiped his face with his towel and trudged to the living room, eyeing the canvas duffle bag near the door and his uniform that hung on a hanger near their cracked mirror.

Slowly he pulled on the green pants and coat. He ran a comb through his damp hair and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at his reflection.

After a minute or two of silence, punctuated only by the slight starts of Steve’s breathing, he leaned over and grabbed his duffle bag. He again crept over to the bed, leaning over and brushing his lips against Steve’s. Steve opened his eyes, which were lucid and free of sleep. He had listened, but kept his eyes shut, unwilling to face Bucky’s departure.

Steve’s eyes ran up and down his uniform. He sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of their shared bed. He wrapped his arms about Bucky’s waist, pulling him close and gripping as tightly as his thin arms could manage. Bucky stood there, running his fingers through Steve’s hair with his free hand, saying nothing.

Bright yellow light was beginning to filter through their threadbare curtains. Steve began rocking back and forth and Bucky swayed with him.

Everything had already been said: how Steve was proud of Bucky, how he would be joining him soon on the frontlines, what Steve would cook when he returned and what they would wear to the dance hall.

When the clock struck six a.m., Steve stood up and walked Bucky to the door. Steve undid the padlock and chain and turned to Bucky. He stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“Be safe,” Steve said. “I won’t be around to save you for a while yet.”

Bucky smirked. “I should be telling you the same thing, punk.”

Steve sniffed. “…I’m serious.”

Bucky slowly pushed him away. “Hey now. Don’t be like that. I ain’t going anywhere.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulders. “I’m with ya till the end of the line, pal.”

Steve looked down at his feet for a moment, then met Bucky’s eyes with a wry, quivering smile. Bucky plastered on one of his own and squeezed tighter.

 

\+ + +  

 

Peggy ascended a set of concrete steps. “We’ve arrived,” she announced to the party. “No doubt Pierce has a formidable militia surrounding the warehouse. Once these doors begin to open, we won’t be hidden long.”

Steve joined her on the steps. “Is everyone clear on the operation?”

Everyone nodded resolutely. Natasha juggled the hard drive between her agile fingers and met Fury and Maria’s eyes. Sam looked to Clint and Phil and nodded as he pulled out his own copy of Stark’s code, mouth full of determined grit. Steve smiled small and proud. Bruce quietly folded his shirt and placed it on the steps, scratching the tuft of chest hair near his collarbone.

He turned to Peggy. “We’re ready, Carter.”

She smiled a small smile and punched in the code. If only her great-great-great-great-great grandfather could see her now. The ceiling rumbled above them, awakened from its slumber.

The thick steel doors began sliding apart. Sand and debris poured through the crack and cascaded down the staircase. Piercing golden sunlight followed, illuminating the sand and dust as it fell.

            Over the low groan of the centuries’ old apparatus, Steve could already make out piqued commotion and gruff commands. Steve looked toward Bruce. He saw sweat pour down his face as his muscles twitched and howled beneath his skin. With trembling feet and pupils blown wide, Bruce made his way up the steps.

"Good luck,” he said to Peggy.

A low roar gathered in his throat and Steve stepped back. All at once, his muscles seemed to burst from his anatomy, inflating and mutating, a murky, deep green rising in his skin. Bruce growled deep and savage as the mutation took hold.

Clint withheld a gasp and Phil squeezed the back of his neck. Sam and Maria took a step back as The Hulk roared out of Dr. Banner.

The thick doors, which still chugged into their sheathes were suddenly gripped by massive, turgid fingers and forced aside. The low rumbling of forces outside suddenly burst into uproar as the super mutant sprang outside, bellowing and seething.

“Open fire!” a militia guard commanded and suddenly the rattle of gunfire sounded above. The Hulk merely shrugged the bullets off and his wounds seemed to close of their own volition. The green mass burst forth into a full sprint toward the warehouse, which stood a half-mile away from the tunnel’s entrance.

“Now!” Steve commanded.

The party sprinted up the staircase and split off into three groups; Sam, Clint and Phil ran to the left, aiming for the warehouse’s northern entrance while Natasha, Fury and Maria darted to the right, keeping cover behind a low, rocky ridge. Steve surged forward, sunlight dancing off of his shield.

The Hulk was already surrounded; four men armed with machetes and sledges danced between his massive calves, laying into him while another two made potshots at him from behind a corner-ruin.

Steve yelled to Peggy who fell back to assist The Hulk. She nodded and made a beeline behind the destroyed brick. She slid in the dry dirt between the two men, catching them unaware. She wrapped a cord around both their throats and yanked down, pitching them to the dirt. She sprang up and swung around, landing harsh blows to their throats, leaving the militiamen sputtering and helpless.

Two more marksmen laid covering fire over Sam’s position. In an instant, Steve spotted two lone arrows arcing high in the air, landing in the guards’ shoulders. The men pitched over the side of the ridge and crumpled on the rocks below.

Steve made it to the building before the others.

As Peggy predicted, a whole line of guards were readying their weapons above on the rafters rimming the top edge of the warehouse. He was situated beneath the grates.

They fumbled trying to get a clear shot at him. Steve leapt and grabbed an outcropping of pipes and hurled himself onto the platform. Four armed guards in black armor met him.

One fired but he guarded it and the bullet bounced off. The two behind him came at him with electric prods. He twisted backwards, grabbing one of the prods and wrenching it from the guard’s grip, sending the sizzling tip flying into another in front of him, who groaned in pain as the strong current swept through his body. He placed the shield on his back and turned backward.

Steve twisted the man’s arm and thrust forward, sending the other behind him off balance and flying over the edge as more sparks danced on the shield on his back. In one last fluid motion, flipped backward, catching another loose pipe and landing behind the remaining guards. His fist shot forward, catching one guard in the temple and the other in the back of the head. They crumpled at his feet.

Inside the warehouse, near Central Command, Pierce looked on his creation—his duty—with twisted pride. In spite of the mounting chaos outside the warehouse’s doors, work continued at a punishing pace. Rumlow stood nearby, arms crossed, the stitched gash on his forehead at last beginning to knit together.

“Sir!” a nearby underling shouted. “We have a problem.”

Pierce looked long and hard at the prototype before turning to the man. “And what problem would that be?”

“We have confirmed sightings of Captain Am—Rogers and a group of hostiles. They came out of nowhere and they have some sort of super mutant fighting for them, Sir.”

Pierce stood from his seat and walked out of Central Command and hurried down the steps while the agent and Rumlow followed. He wound around the corridor and headed toward the warehouse’s computer systems, where one of the monoliths hung embedded in the humming matrix. The room stretched out before him and an engineer jogged toward them. Pierce nodded toward the software engineer and she logged into the nearest console. Two faceless guards stood alert near the door.

“They’ve arrived just in time for target practice,” Pierce murmured as the engineer followed his order. Pierce ran a hand through his sweaty hair, which hung limply from his scalp. His suit jacket had long been discarded and his sleeves were wrinkled from the constant rolling and unrolling, as if his body were off its meridian and could not balance itself in the face of the massive prototype being birthed on the warehouse floor.

The engineer finished making fake profiles for Steve Rogers and Natasha, ones that would ensure annihilation. “Keep Rogers and his friends at bay and outside of the building. Once the prototype is online they will be a concern to us no longer.”

The agent saluted and sprinted up the steps to the main floor.

“Rumlow, you are to remain here and guard the navigation systems while I coordinate the prototype’s last security measures. Execute any interlopers.” Pierce walked toward the rusted hatch. “Do not disappoint me.”

“You have my word.” With a firm hand, Rumlow saluted his master and un-holstered his weapon, ready for the inevitable raid.

Natasha, Fury and Maria reached the south entrance as Steve tussled with the guards above. The Hulk remained out in the field, attracting the ire of wandering patrols and igniting panic among their ranks. Guns crackled wildly followed by deep, angry bellows. Natasha worked efficiently with her lockpicking kit and in a moment the southern swung open, catching a group of the militiamen unaware.

Slipping between the two guards, she tilted and swung her left leg, catching a neck behind her knee and slamming his head into the hatch’s metal frame. Fury and Maria laid covering fire near the entrance as the other guards fell back.

She shot a withering gaze toward another and the guard dropped her weapon and raised her hands. “Smart,” Natasha commented. She nodded toward the door and let the young guard flee into the wasteland.

Tony turned to the commotion, dropping his welding gun. J.A.R.V.I.S. followed suit, gliding after his master. The guards were scrambling, angling toward the eastern half of the building while readying their rifles.

Clint skid around the corner, releasing a flash bang arrow near the iron scaffolding above the north entrance. The guards above screamed inside the blast. Two tumbled over the side as Sam and Phil rounded the corner of the exterior. Phil strapped a plastic explosive to the door and they took cover. In two seconds a burst of flame and noise marked their cue.

Steve dove through a plate-glass window and landed on the upper platforms. Then he saw it.

The vertibird prototype seemed to endlessly stretch outwards, barely contained by the warehouse. Dozens of men and women, some in lab coats and some bearing collars upon their necks, worked tirelessly among the welding sparks, even as they were under siege. Turrets and jet propulsion systems lined its outstretched appendages. With such firepower, Hydra would be near impossible to stand against.

Lining the arena were Hillside’s legion, weapons trained on the collared workers and Tony Stark who, cheeks hollow and empty, labored among them. His eyes were wary and scanning the perimeter. They met Steve’s. Tony smirked.

Steve made a dash toward the upper control chamber, certain that one of the computers would be found there. He burst into the room, hurling his shield at the armed man near the back. The plain-clothed workers turned to him in surprise. He looked them straight in the eye. They quit their stations and ran toward the exit.

He walked over to the central console, but found no avenues for Stark’s hard drive. Instead, he grabbed the microphone and flipped a switch.

"Everyone, put down your tools,” Steve commanded. He felt the crowd turn and focus on Steve. Outside, The Hulk’s roar could be heard among the abundant gunfire. “If this prototype goes up, hundreds will perish. Your friends, your family, entire settlements will vanish into thin air.” He paused. “And if you think Zola’s census will save you, it is only a matter of time until Pierce widens the scope, sending the prototype after you and your loved ones next. Destructive paranoia always focuses on one purpose, and it won’t be long before you are deemed unworthy of it.”

Tony turned to the other engineers. Some dropped their tools and clipboards, hands trembling as they fervently observed the others. The guards barked their commands, telling them to recommence their work while others sent a scattering of gunfire toward Steve. The bulletproof windows held and Steve continued.

“Only destruction and death wait for us on this path. Do not deliver S.H.I.E.L.D. down it.”

Sam and Clint took the opportunity to dash past and down the other stairs toward the warehouse’s motherboard—where Tony’s message said they could be found. Fury and Natasha took a similar route on the opposite side while Steve had their attention.

A huge burst of static interrupted Steve’s line to the speakers. “No. The only way humanity survives is with Project Insight’s conclusion. We cannot be left to our own devices. We need order—and the only way order can be achieved is through pain and sacrifice,” his voice echoed. “The calibrations are complete. Launch the prototype!”

Tony looked over to the control console. The engineer stood trembling near the control panel. Two guards swiftly approached him, taking aim at the man’s head.

“Follow your directive!” one of the guards barked.

The engineer at the panel said nothing, staring at the controls and then up to Steve Rogers. “No,” he choked out. “I’m not doing it. I’m not launching the prototype.” The man felt a cool barrel pushed to the back of his skull, leaving a bruise.

“Launch the ‘bird, now!”

“No. I won't!” the engineer shouted back.

“Looks like your standing on the wrong side.”

The other guard turned on her partner. “That depends on where you’re standing,” Sharon Carter said. “Drop your weapon.”

Soon the guards became entangled, each aiming at another, unsure of where the other stood. It was a stalemate, one Steve watched unfold from up above. Phil wrenched the compartment’s door open and entered the command center. “Just received word from Peggy. She spotted him. He’s coming. Fast,” Phil said quick and cool, waiting on Steve to make a decision.

Steve gripped the handle of his shield. “Let me handle him.”

Down below, Clint struggled with the lock. Sam leaned over his shoulder.

“You gotta hurry up, man. There isn’t any time!”

“Whaddya think I’m trying to do?” Clint shot back.

On the other side of the facility, Natasha was having the same obstacle.

“Must have installed a special system. I can’t break through,” she said gruffly. Fury pulled her aside and planted another explosive on the hatch. Sam had the same idea. He and Clint scrambled up the steps while Natasha and Fury took cover behind industrial size crates.

           

Tony was surrounded on all side by hair-triggers and shaking prisoners. He knew the tide would shift; not nearly all the guards were out. Already he felt other boots encroach on the panel’s position. He widened his stance and rolled up a shirtsleeve. “JARVIS. Operation ‘Shish-Kebab.’”

“Of course, sir.” The Mr. Handy sprouted new arms from its central body that twitched and swung toward the back. A row of guards had only a moment to respond before jets of hot flame burst from the JARVIS’s appendages, dousing the interlopers in napalm. They panicked. Gunfire burst from all directions and the floor fell into sweeping chaos.

Sharon knocked out the other guard and took cover, taking the engineer with him. Steve, Maria, and Phil burst out of the Central Command and lined the upper rafters. Phil and Maria laid covering fire with their semi-automatic rifles, allowing for a group of engineers and prisoners to escape out of the still smoldering northern entrance.

Steve’s eyes wildly scanned the floor, on the lookout for Pierce and Bucky. He spotted Tony sprinting toward the control panel. Tony ducked beneath a swing of a machete, bounded over a fallen prisoner and narrowly dodged a swathe of flame.

“Watch where you’re aiming that thing!”

“My apologies, sir,” JARVIS answered, bathing another hostile in flame.

Tony slid in front of the controls, removing a side panel. If he could disable the controls, the prototype could stay grounded for the time being; it would not take care of the weaponry, and with its current layout, the monster could still conceivably make due with firing upon Pierce’s targets from afar with long-range missiles.

Steve swung around and caught three others attempting to ambush him.

Just as Tony took the wires into his hands, parsing out which is which, he felt a cold tug on his shoulder. Tony’s head swung around and he met a cool, dour gaze, which seemed to look a thousand miles past him. He felt a vice grip tighten on his shoulder and he gasped in pain.

He was lifted off the ground. The hand had slid around his neck and Tony feebly attempted to remove them. His eyes slid down the metal arm, whose hinges smoothly slid in and out of one another like the plates of a radscorpion. The man crouched down and thrust upwards, sending Tony flying into a pile of crates dozens of feet off.

He withdrew his plasma pistol and surgically planted two shots in the Mr. Handy’s hull, sending smoke and sparks spewing into the air as the robot collapsed. Flames still stretched out left and right. Steve contended with the armed men, whose electric prods sizzled through the air in wide arcs.

The Winter Soldier crouched down in front of the panel and re-connected some wires, causing the controls to blink on. His hands glided along its surface. Soon the prototype, like a lingering giant, groaned to life. Its massive propellers, encased in shining rims embedded in the wings, began to spin, sending dust and debris flying in all directions. With another dance of his fingers, the building began to shake and groan in kind.

Natasha and Fury held onto the railings as the building lurched beneath them. “We don’t have much time,” Natasha said. She sprang up and dashed into the dark hall. Meanwhile, Clint and Sam were made their way to the southern systems. Left and right, guards fled as debris was shaken loose from the building, dusting their heads and cloying the corridor.

Steve looked up to the roof as he noticed dust fall along its central seam. In short order, the ceiling began to part, letting in piercing sunlight.

Tony crawled out of the wreckage on hands and knees. “Shit.”

Steve’s eyes then sought out the cause. He circled around on the rafters. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted him. He saw the sunlight dance off of shining metal and an angry, red star. The Winter Soldier looked up toward him on the rafters.

"Bucky,” Steve said.

Steve did not capture his attention for long. The Winter Soldier dashed off. A long ramp opened up at the rear of the prototype with a sharp hiss. The Soldier ran up the ramp and into the aircraft. The ceiling continued to part, opening wider and wider by the second.

The aircraft began to lift off of the floor. The prisoners and engineers lined the edges of the building, eyes wide in horror. Phil and Maria were at Steve’s sides.

“Get the prisoners and any who surrender into cover!” Steve barked.

Phil grasped Steve’s shoulder. “You can do this, Captain,” he said grimly.

“Someone has to.” Steve gave a quick salute and vaulted over the edge as the prototype began taking off into the sky. Arms outstretched, he grasped the bars of the service ladder that crested over the side of the aircraft.

The prototype climbed higher and higher into the sky. The air rushed past Steve’s face, making each rung more and more difficult to grasp, but something surged inside of him and he surmounted the top ledge and walked carefully to the top hatch of the aircraft.

Even hundreds of feet in the air, he could hear the sound of mounting chaos and panic below him. He spotted The Hulk, who was leading a group of bright white specs over toward another building. Another figure gestured toward the ruins—Peggy Carter. The rotating propellers blocked out her sonorous voice as the aircraft rose to its atmospheric zenith.

Steve had no time to marvel at the landscape and take in its awe-striking horror. He reached down and pulled the lever. A great whistle sounded as the hatch swung open. He braced himself, dropping down below.

He landed near the vehicle ramp with a great clang that reverberated through the storage sections. Slowly he rose to his feet and took in his surroundings, eyes adjusting to the low light. The aircraft had come together seamlessly. Harsh uneasiness roiled in his stomach.

He followed a small shaft of light, which was suddenly interrupted. The light danced off of a shining, metal limb. Steve widened his stance, prepared to stand his ground. He felt the hard drive shift in his pocket.

“People are going to die, Bucky,” Steve started, taking one step forward. “I can’t allow that to happen.” Steve swallowed down a bitter load. “I can’t let you get in my way.”

The Winter Soldier was still for a moment, then, with a swift flick of his wrist, a long blade emerged from its sheath. He widened his stance, scanning Steve intensely. He rushed forward.

 

\+ + + 

 

“We’re in,” Natasha shouted over the crumbling roar.

The door swung open on a series of hard drives and servers. Near the back of the room, illuminated by glistening and blinking lights.

Natasha crept in, “Now Stark said that—”

From behind her, darting from the shadows was Alexander Pierce. He held a loaded revolver to her head. She went rigid, assessing her surroundings.

“So you’re alive after all,” Pierce said calmly. His hands were cold. Fury turned back to Pierce, keeping his distance, circling them like a wild predator.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Fury said. Natasha spotted his hand, which was on the holster of his gun. He made no movement. She felt the barrel of the gun vaguely tremble. Slowly she worked her left hand into her jumpsuit’s pocket, feeling for the hard drive.

Pierce wrenched her arm and led her toward the console. “The spectacle will be grand, Fury. That you can count on.”

Fury tracked them with his stern gaze. “There was a time, when I would have taken a bullet for you, Alexander.”

Pierce cocked an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Nick.” His grip on the gun tightened. “Once I knew a man who would do anything for the greater good, who would make any sacrifice if it meant protecting the future of humanity.”

"People change,” Fury said simply. “Nations rise and fall, we learn from our past failures,” he kept his gaze trained on Pierce, but in truth he was watching Natasha withdraw the hard drive from her pocket, “so we don’t repeat them.”

She dropped the hard drive onto a patch of sand, which dulled its fall. Pierce squeezed tight with his left arm, slowly cutting off Natasha’s air. “I agree completely. We have to work for our future—earn it. If that means some die in the name of unity, then so be it,” Pierce growled. “As long as we continue to contradict one another—diverge ideologically—then we are no better than the mutated vermin and vicious savages that litter the wasteland.”

Fury sneered. “There was a time when you and I would’ve seen eye to eye on that issue,” he said, keeping an eye on Natasha’s movement. Between their verbal acrobatics, rumbling chaos above and the calibrating software all around them, Pierce missed the short metal rod Natasha had withdrawn from its slick holster.

“But if there’s anything I’ve learned since this project began, it’s this.” Fury drew closer. “You have to keep both eyes open.”

Natasha took that as her cue and flipped the rod’s switch. Electric light danced and crackled at its tip as she jammed it into her thigh. The current surged up and down her leg, travelling between her and Pierce. He stuttered in pain as the shock took hold.

He released his grip, letting Natasha crumble to the floor and the gun slide across the metal grates. He collapsed into a humming server, clutching his chest and catching his breath. Fury swiftly retrieved the gun and pulled Natasha to her feet, training the sights on Pierce.

“You couldn’t resist, could you?” Natasha said, a slight grin tugging at her lips.

 

\+ + + 

 

Sam and Clint both tugged on the lever with all of their strength. A pipe burst to their left, sending a jet of steam pouring into the air. Sam dodged the blast and kicked the pipe back into its place, avoiding the hot stream.

“Almost!” Clint grunted.

Sam groaned again and the lever skid into place, unhitching the improvised lock on the door. Clint rolled to the side of the door and Sam took the opposite point. As soon as the door was open, a hail of gunfire emptied into the corridor, sparking off of pipes and rusted metal.

They crouched down, hiding in the shadows.

“Go and check it out,” a gruff voice commanded from inside the room.

A pair of guards swept into the corridor. Steam still lingered at the corners of the corridor, clouding the shadows and providing cover for Clint and Sam. Another pipe groaned in the corner. The lights strapped to the ends of their barrels traced the burgeoning pipe. The first guard crept past Clint’s position. He watched him from the cracks in the pipes, waiting for his chance to strike. Sam was tucked into a darkened corner.

The guard lowered his gun and Clint took his opportunity. Clint tumbled from behind the wall of pipes. He swept the floor with his leg, knocking the man off-balance. Gunfire ricocheted off the ceiling, piercing more pipes. The room became packed in hot mist.

 Sam came out swinging, catching the guard’s exposed jaw and shoving him against the pipes. He grappled the man into a chokehold and held him until he became limp.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a blinking spot being tossed up and down. Rumlow stood inside the chamber, waiting.

Before Sam could respond, he saw a grenade being hurled toward their position. Clint withdrew his bow. In one deft movement, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver, pulled back the line and fired at the grenade. The tip of the arrow caught it in mid-air, between the handle and the central cylinder. The arrow traveled to the end of the wide corridor, where it embedded itself in the pipes.

Sam and Clint ducked behind cover. The grenade burst in a wreath of fire, ripping to shreds the accompanying pipes, whose vapors spread the flames. A second later Rumlow rushed out into the corridor, a submachine gun in each hand. He swerved and spun around, throwing bouts of gunfire to each darkened corner.

A bullet grazed Sam’s shoulder and he stifled a groan. Rumlow slowly walked down the corridor. The light from the flame illuminated the hot steam, making aiming a chore. Rumlow sent a burst of bullets after each small movement and grew more and more frustrated with each failed connection.

Sam caught Clint’s eyes. Sam held up three fingers to him and mouthed, “3, 2, 1.”

They tumbled out of their hiding places toward the center of the corridor. Rumlow saw the vapor shift and swung around. Bullets arced off of every surface, making more and more pinpoints of hot steam. Sam and Clint dodged the gunfire in slivers, staying only inches ahead of the gunfire as they closed the gap between them.

 

\+ + + 

 

The Soldier jabbed with a knife near Steve’s side. Steve thrust forward with his leg. The Soldier caught his leg and wrenched it to the left. Steve jumped up on his remaining leg, his boot landing square in the Soldier’s chest, sending him stumbling back and Steve vaulting backward. Steve landed nearer to the cockpit, but he had no time to enter. The Soldier rushed forward once more, his right arm raised.

He fired three times. Two bullets ricocheted off of Steve’s shield and the last caught him in the side. Steve felt warmth bloom at his side but he did not back down. He looked into The Soldier’s face, but found nothing of Bucky there—none of his wry, kindness or the gentle, fleeting warmth in his glance. It dropped like a heavy stone in Steve’s stomach. He cursed himself for being so selfish when so many lives were at stake.

Captain America met the Soldier head on, blocking three more swipes of Bucky’s knife and catching his right arm in his elbow. Entangled, Steve jerked his head forward, head-butting The Soldier. He winced, but returned with a sharp knee to Steve’s gut, knocking the wind out of him.

Steve rolled back on his shield and prepared for another volley. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for long and he still had to reach the control room before the aircraft finished its calibrations.

Suddenly, beneath his feet, the aircraft lurched and pitched forward sending both of them tumbling down the ramp.

 

\+ + + 

 

Natasha retrieved the hard drive and swiftly inspected it. No damage from the fall or the nearby electric surge. She marched over to the computer monitor and inserted the hard drive.

“You realize what is at stake, don’t you Romanov? The promise of safety? The remaining legacy of mankind before the war? You would throw all of that away at the behest of a forgotten, propaganda puppet?” Pierce said from the darkened corner.

Fury kept his aim steady, never glancing away from Pierce.

“’Puppet?’” Natasha scoffed. “A bit funny coming from a man who worships the diary entries of an obvious lunatic.”

Pierce’s face shifted at the accusation and twisted into a stern sneer. “Ancestor Zola’s vision of the future would be free from struggle, unified under a singular vision. I will not tolerate an outsider slandering his name.”

Natasha turned to face Pierce. The computer hummed behind her already the hard drive was fast at work, disrupting the prototype’s ability to pilot itself.

“Then it’s fortunate I’m not an outsider, isn’t it?” she said simply. “Aleksandr Petrov?”

Pierce chuckled bitterly and shook his head. “I knew it. I should have had him come after you as well—what a damned fool I was. I knew your mother’s disdain for the Family would rub off on her bastard daughter.”

"That’s enough,” Fury said, stepping closer to Pierce.

Pierce chuckled. “S.H.I.E.L.D. will turn on you next, Fury. Without anyone to guide them, they will start pointing fingers, initiating a witch-hunt. Hillside will be first, no doubt,” Pierce raised his gaze to Fury, “but anyone with connections to Hillside will be next in line, succumbing to the fear and paranoia I have tried my best to eliminate.”

The computer screen flashed three times and little pixelated fireworks exploded onscreen. “The program was carried out successfully,” Natasha marveled. “The prototype’s wings have been clipped.”

“I hope you are ready for the coming storm,” Pierce uttered.

Pierce shoved his hand into his pocket. Fury fired into Pierce’s chest. He groaned, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. He collapsed to his knees and fell forward into the sand, staining it red. In his right hand dangled a gold chain.

Natasha’s attention closed in on the chain, the familiar weight and the ridged links. She walked over to Pierce’s body and wrenched the thing from his dead hand. She let the chain dangle in her grasp. Down her eyes traveled where the chain was drawn to a point by a heavy gold locket.

Her heart stopped as she opened it. Inside she found two photographs, one with blazing red hair and the other with a cool, sandy coif. She snapped the locket shut.

Above them, the sound of bullets and fighting had slipped into mounting chaos and panic.

“Are you alright, Natasha?” Fury asked as he followed her up the steps.

“It can wait,” she said over her shoulder. She composed herself, taking a deep breath. “Let’s move.”

 

\+ + + 

 

Rumlow was a capable fighter. Clint, still weary from the interrogations was finding it difficult to keep up. Sam had retreated to the back room, searching the various monitors and screens, failing again and again to find a point of ingress for Stark’s hard drive.

Clint ducked and jumped, but Rumlow was gaining more ground. He hacked away with both arms and his reach was long. Clint could not get distant enough to ready his bow.

“When they write the history books on this,” Rumlow grunted, “I’ll be sure to give ‘em your names, show them how many fools stood against us.”

“Man, shut the hell up!” Sam shouted from the back room. His voice carried over the burning flame and collapsing pipes. He reached around a monitor and felt for cords, holes, anything. Slowly the fire was spreading through the corridor, catching on ancient inflammable liquids and run-offs from the warehouse.

“How’s that hard drive coming?” Clint grunted. He caught a blade between his hands, barely avoiding the edge. He thrust forward with the heel of his boot and caught Rumlow’s kneecap. Rumlow backed away.

“I’m working on it!” Sam said. He rushed over to a tall stack of censuses and swept them aside, scattering them to the floor. The smoke stung his eyes, but through his tears he finally found a port for the drive. He reached for his pockets and frantically searched them. They were empty. “Shit!”

“Looking for something?” Rumlow taunted. Through the gathering fumes Sam could see the shining casing from all the way in back.

“What? You don’t have another copy? Always thought Stark was smarter than that. But he did team up with all of you, after all.”

Clint stood back, catching his breath, gritting his teeth. Rumlow threw the drive to the floor and lifted his heel.

“No!” Sam shouted.

Clint summoned his last ounces of strength and tackled Rumlow to the floor. He pulled back a fist, but Rumlow raised his blade, slicing through Clint’s padded vest. Clint squinted in pain and brought down his fist, catching Rumlow’s stitches.

Rumlow had his other arm raised and was ready to bring the machete down on Clint’s head.

“Head’s up!” Sam shouted.

Clint did not look back. He rolled off of Rumlow and tumbled to a corner. Sam, hands burning on the steel, pulled down a loose pipe, letting a jet of steam pour into Rumlow’s face.

He screamed in agony as skin peeled off in ribbons. He stood up, limbs shaking and made one last dash toward Sam.

Hands still burning from the hot steel, Sam pulled loose a pipe from the ceiling. He roared as he pulled back and whipped Rumlow across the jaw, sending him stumbling back.

Clint, still in the shadows, put out a lone leg. Rumlow tripped over it. He tumbled down the second flight of stairs and into the blaze. Down below, they could hear Rumlow’s cries as he lay in a pool of flame, burning alive.  Sam met Clint’s eyes, which were wide with shock.

“Come on,” Sam said. He held out a hand and helped Clint to his feet. Clint’s legs wobbled from exhaustion and he winced as he crossed an arm over to hold his bleeding side. Rumlow’s screams filled the corridor as they made their way to the monitors.

Sam left him leaning against a wall as he dashed over to insert the hard drive.

“Come on, come on,” Sam urged it.

“I don’t think computers work that way,” Clint said from the corner.

The screen blinked green three times and little fireworks lit up on the screen.

"Okay, got it! We’re gettin’ you out of here,” Sam said. He rushed over to Clint, taking an arm over his shoulder and hauling him up the flights of stairs.

The building rumbled all around them. Another set of pipes fell down the stairwell and into the flame. Beneath them, the steps near the bottom gave way and crumbled.

“Just leave me,” Clint said. “I’m slowing you down.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Sam said. “Phil and I are practically neighbors. He’d kill me if I left you.”

Sam summoned the last of his strength and forged on. The world blurred around him with smoke and vapor and for a fleeting moment, he thought they’d both end up the same as Rumlow.

Near the top of the stairwell, a gloved hand reached down and grabbed Sam’s, helping them make the final stretch out of the wreckage. Fury took Clint’s arm and helped him up while Natasha quickly dressed the wound.

Near the entrances, Phil and Maria were waving people out, and directing them to the nearby ruins with the others. After the remaining crowd had fled, Maria, Clint and Tony ran over to the staircases to meet them.

"You guys did it,” Maria said, out of breath. “I don’t believe it.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Fury said. He looked up through the open ceiling. Only the sun hung in the sky. “Where the hell is the prototype?” he barked.

“It started traveling north, up to Interstate,” Phil said as he took Fury’s place at Clint’s side. He held a hand to his stomach and straightened Clint up. “But it changed direction, heading south, maybe to Drive-In or Endsville. It’s impossible to tell.”

Fury frowned. “Someone get a visual on it,” he ordered. “No one rests until we see that thing go down.”

 

\+ + + 

 

They both ended up near the bottom of the ramp. Steve heard the cock of a gun to his left. He balled up behind his shield, deflecting the bullets. He jerked himself up and sat on The Winter Soldier’s chest, angling his metal arm over his head. Bucky swiped ineffectually with the other arm, grunting in frustration.

Steve flipped him over and landed on his back. His right arm held Bucky’s neck in a vice-grip as The Soldier continued to struggle. He swiped up again, but Steve caught his arm behind his knee and held him still, even as the prototype continued to stutter and swerve in the air.

Steve’s pulse jumped as he felt The Soldier’s pulse rise from lack of oxygen. He squirmed once more and then went limp in his arms. Steve was still for a moment, lost in thoughts and memories. The ship jerked again and he was brought back. He stumbled on his way up the ramp. He looked back again at The Soldier and found Bucky’s slumbering, still face.

He let one sob escape him as he sprinted toward the front of the ship. He struggled with the hatch, summoning all of his might to get the wheel to turn for him. A gunshot rang out.

It caught him in the thigh. Steve turned back. Bucky was clutching a dangling chain on the side of the ramp. His pistol was drawn, but his eyes were blurred and unfocused. He fired again.

Steve nimbly dodged. He unhooked his shield and began beating the door down. His first blow dented the hatch. Two more bursts. One whizzed by his head and the other bounced off of his shield. Wincing at the mounting pain, Steve pulled back for another blow.

He knocked the wheel off the door, piercing through to the other side. He heard heavy footsteps stomp up the ramp and the sound of a spent clip fall to the metal grates.

Steve reached through the hole and turned the handle. The door swung open. Steve ran to the front of the cockpit and found the port. He jammed the hard drive into it and the control panel began blinking erratically. Through the front windows, he spotted the shimmering surface Lake Liberty. The aircraft was approaching it at a rapid pace.

He turned around. The Soldier was slowly approaching, mouth twisted in a confused grimace. His eyes darted up and down, tracing a tormented line from Steve’s boots to his shield and then his face.

The panel’s lights blinked three more times, then shut off entirely. The aircraft made another jerk as the nose tilted sharply upwards, up, up over the lake. Steve and The Soldier skid down the length of the prototype, back down the ramps.

A great groan vibrated beneath him and the large port began to open. Air rushed into the vessel, blowing his long brown hair left and right as the aircraft changed orientation.

Steve’s injuries were mounting and every injury weighed heavily upon him. Still The Soldier approached him on unsteady legs.

Steve unbuckled his helmet and tossed it aside, letting it tumble down the ramp and out of the aircraft. He knew this would be his only chance. As his vision blurred around the edges, he made one final attempt with Bucky.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve said. “You know me.”

The Soldier paused and stopped in his tracks. His eyes darted up and down once more, then he continued his trek up the ramp. “No I don’t!” he barked back.

“I’m not going to fight you, Buck,” Steve said as the man approached him. His fingers fell limp and his scorched shield clattered to the floor, sliding down the ramp and plummeting to the shining lake below. “You’ve known me your whole life. You’re my friend.”

The Soldier grimaced and tossed his empty gun aside. “You’re my mission!” he grunted as he sprinted toward him. He caught Steve by the shoulders and slammed him down. The two bodies rolled further down the ramp.

A great shudder resounded through the aircraft. A monitor near the front blinked red, telling all personnel to evacuate the craft.

Steve’s head dangled off the edge of the cold metal. The Soldier struck him over and over with his metal fist. Steve felt the warm blood trickle out of his temple and past his hairline, but he remained still, exhibiting no will to fight.

“You are my mission!” The Soldier repeated, landing blow after blow against his limp target.

Steve spat up blood. His vision blurred and swayed before him. “T-then finish it,” he gasped. “’Cause I’m with you…till the end of the line.”

Bucky reeled back again, blue eyes wide and brimming with tears. He held his fist aloft but did not bring it down. “S-Steve?”

The turrets on the bottom of the craft whirred and recalibrated their aim. Fire flowed from their barrels and heat-seeking missiles burst from them. They cascaded through the air, leaving white trails of vapor behind them. They arced and circled back toward itself. The craft shook with the force of the explosions, rocking back and forth in violent waves.

Steve saw him then—Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s mouth was gaping in horror and his unblinking eyes ran up and down his face, looking at the hurt he caused, the blood he shed. He lowered his metal fist.

As he did, another volley rocked the ship, sending scraps of the hull plummeting toward the lake. Bucky lost his grip on Steve and Steve tumbled off the ledge.

Steve spiraled downwards, amidst rubble, glass and flaming debris. His version was a complete blur. He was on the edge of consciousness, only barely aware that he was falling to his death. His mind drifted to Bucky’s face—his toothy, pugnacious grin and the wrinkles about his eyes as he smiled.

In an instant, everything was muffled and cold. He could not breathe, but did not care. He had completed his objective and earned an ounce of redemption to fill an ocean of regret. With that thought, he was content to drift in the cold deep of the lake, finally forgotten. Light filtered through the waves of Lake Liberty. Shards of glass and metal broke its surface, sending the light scattering left and right.

Before everything turned dark, before Steve Grant Rogers readied himself for the void of eternity, he spotted a shimmering metal hand reaching down, fingers splayed, searching through the depths.

           

            


	15. Remember to Rebuild

Everything was dark and murky. He was soaked through. He was barely aware of it. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, shaking vigorously and, as if down a long tunnel, he heard a voice. Bucky’s voice.

  
“Captain,” the voice urged, “Captain! Come on, wake up!” With each syllable the voice became more ragged and gravelly, another voice altogether.

  
Steve felt a heavy pressure pumping at his chest, coming in sets of three. He coughed and sputtered. Images of a dark cavern, lit up by the light off the water faded in and out of view, until inky blackness consumed his sight.

  
Then a firm grip held him beneath his arms, dragging him away, though he was only distantly aware that anything was happening, that anything moved. The backs of his boots vibrated against metal grates.

\+ + +

Steve’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for air. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the side railings of his dilapidated cot. The air was stale, yet familiar, cloying against his bare skin. Two bare light bulbs buzzed overhead. Steve coughed and attempted to sit up. A dull pain throbbed at his sides and he lay down. He looked down and saw bandages expertly wrapped to dress his wounds. At the side of the cot was a metal tray with medical supplies. Three bullets rested in a metal bowl, blood drying in a pool beneath them. His suit, bloodstained and scorched, was folded neatly on a nearby stool. His shield was nowhere to be found.

  
He heard footsteps slowly approaching his chamber’s door. He made another attempt to sit up, but winced as his wounds stubbornly resisted him.

  
Slowly the handle began to turn. Steve cleared his throat.

  
“Bucky? Bucky, is that you?”

  
The door creaked open on rusty hinges. Steve saw two beady eyes address him from sunken hollows.

  
“Who the hell is Bucky?” Frank asked. He walked across the room and Steve tracked his movement.

  
“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you,” Frank said, picking up the medical supplies and placing them in a strong-smelling solution.

  
“You did this?” Steve said, nodding toward his bandages.

  
Frank nodded. “Couldn’t just leave you lying on the shore like that,” he said in his ragged voice.

  
“Thank you, Frank,” Steve said, smiling softly. “It’s a top-notch job.”

  
Frank placed the tools in a nearby sink. “You don’t live as long as I do without picking up a few things. You’d be stupid not to.”

  
Steve closed his eyes and leaned back against the metal bars of the cot’s frame. He saw light flitting between waves of water. Through them reached a searching, metal hand.

  
“What happened? What did you see?”

  
Frank chuckled softly. “It was quite the spectacle. I was sunbathing on the roof with my binoculars and what do I see? A giant goddamn vertibird flying over the wasteland, zig-zagging like a drunken lark.”

  
Frank sat in an empty folding chair near the cot, legs wide and his folded, rotting hands hanging between them.

  
“When the damned thing reached the lake, it started firing missiles. Thought I was a goner, but no, the missiles swerved back and pierced its own hull.” He lit a cigarette.

  
“Then I saw you fall into the lake.” He took a deep drag. “Someone dived in after you from the flying wreckage. I gathered some supplies and rushed outside, just in time to see the aircraft crash on the northern part of the shore.” He pointed toward the door. “It’s still out there, burning up. Stinks to high heaven.”

  
Steve steadied himself on his elbows at the mention of the second man.

  
“Where did he go? Is he still here?” Steve demanded.

  
Frank shook his head. “I hid once I got outside. I recognized the man’s cybernetic arm and that big fuckin’ star. Thought he was gonna come over and finish the job, but no, he just sat there next to you on the beach. Never said a word.

  
“Somethin’ got him all fired up, though. He marched off to the north. Passed right by me, but he didn’t so much as lift a finger toward me.” Frank pressed the butt into a nearby ashtray. It smoked and smoldered and then went out.

  
“How long was I under?” Steve asked.

  
“It’s been a few days.”

  
Steve knew where Bucky was going. He swung his leg over the edge of the cot and marched over to his suit.

  
“Wait, where do you think you’re going?” Frank said as Steve brushed past him.

  
“I have to find him,” Steve said, stepping into his jumpsuit. “I know where he’s headed.”

  
“You mean you’re going after that man with the arm?” Frank sputtered. “You know he’s a nut, right? He may have saved you, but he killed half of my friends up in here.”

  
Steve turned to the ghoul, eyes consoling. “I know, Frank, but it wasn’t his fault. He had been brainwashed, he had no idea what he was doing.”

  
Frank scoffed, “I’ve heard that one before.”

  
“I’m not asking you to come with me,” Steve said. As he stepped into the left leg, a sharp sting raced up and down his side and he collapsed into the stool.

  
Frank slipped on a rubber glove and unwrapped a syringe. He injected more meds into Steve’s side and the pain faded to a dull roar.  
“Well I’m not askin’,” Frank started as he disposed of the syringe, “I’m telling you, you’re not goin’ alone.” Frank grabbed a canvas sack and neatly packed inside of it disinfectants, rolls of gauze, stimpacks and med-x.

  
Frank led Steve out of the crumbling building and into the early dawn. From a nearby bank of sand and rock, he looked out over the lake. Piles of smoldering metal puked dark smoke into the sky. Piles of scrap and pipes lay in glowing heaps along the shore, black and utterly destroyed. Steve could not help the surge of relief that flooded his system.

  
Frank stood beside him, hands on his waste. “I remember that project,” Frank murmured. “We were workin’ on those back before the bombs dropped. Would’ve been bad news if that got up in the air.” He pointed to the wreckage.

  
“You’re the one that stopped it?” he asked, cocking his brow—the hair had long since fallen out.

  
“I had a lot of help,” Steve said, holding his side. “The same men that raided your homestead—the ones that were giving the orders to my friend—were going to kill hundreds of people. I couldn’t let that firepower fall into their hands.”

  
Frank was quiet for a long moment. Then he turned on his heel and told Steve to lead the way. Because of his injuries and mounting exhaustion, the pace was slow. Every hour or so, Frank would tell Steve to sit down and rest. He changed the bandages twice along their trek.

  
They ended up taking the long road to Sanctuary. Groups of prospectors and scavengers had already caught wind of the prime wreckage mired in Lake Liberty, and were eager to begin surveying. Steve watched them through Frank’s binoculars.

  
“Guess they must be relieved too,” Frank offered. “The prototype was scary even for us—and we were workin’ on it. Can’t imagine what it was like seeing something like that for the first time outta nowhere.”

  
Steve smiled softly and handed back the binoculars. “Let’s move.”

\+ + +

The sun was blistering. Clint was certain he would have rings permanently seared into his skin from the binoculars. The canvas cover did little to help the heat. He checked his watch. It was 1 o’clock. None have heard from Steve Rogers in over three days.

  
Behind him, he heard heavy boots on the ladder. He looked back at Phil then resumed scanning the horizon. He spotted Sam tending to his remaining brahmin. He decided that he’d keep an eye on his ranch house on the off chance that Steve would think to go there first. He removed himself from the shade, shining a mirror and catching the man’s attention. Sam’s own mirror shined back and through the binoculars. Sam blocked out then re-angled it. Their sign for “no.”

  
“What’s the word?” Phil asked, handing him a can of stale coffee.

  
“Still no sign.”

  
Phil placed a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Did you get any sleep?”

  
“Maybe an hour or two.”

  
“Clint,” Phil said in a reprimanding tone.

  
“Steve might be hurt. He might collapse a mile out of Sanctuary. If that happens and no one spots him…”

  
Phil’s arm slid around his shoulders. “I know, Clint.” He was still for a moment. “Carter and Dr. Banner have yet to see him either, though they probably have their hands full tending to the sick and wounded.”

  
“Any word from Natasha?”

  
Phil shook his head. “Not since she left for Hillside.”

  
Clint sighed. “Why would she strike out on her own like that? She usually takes way more time planning out a reconnaissance op.”

  
“She’ll be okay,” Phil said. “She can handle herself. If things get too dicey, she’ll withdraw.”

  
The statement did little to comfort Clint. He screwed his mouth tight and ran a hand through his hair. They searched the wreckage of the prototype for a full day, having left Yvonne’s warehouse to crumble into ash. There was no sign—no helmet, no uniform, no shield. They returned to Sanctuary crestfallen and with still so much to be accomplished. There was no telling how quick the word would spread of Pierce’s death or how many remained loyal to his cause.

  
Clint knew they needed a plan to flush them out, and to make sure their festering dogma did not spread once more. Reassuring S.H.I.E.L.D.’s public would be another issue altogether. Fury said they needed to save face—to convince everyone that what they did was not only warranted, but necessary. Steve Rogers would be crucial to that effort. He corralled S.H.I.E.L.D.’s onlookers behind the project, Phil had posited, and he could also change the tide in their favor. There was no telling what would transpire if Steve…Clint shook the thought from his head.

  
Natasha was quiet during their initial talks. She sat in the corner, hands in her lap, clutching a small, shining locket, eyes fixated on it. She left Sanctuary early that morning before sunrise, without any word save for a brief note.

  
Phil chuckled solemnly. “I’d hate to be in Steve’s shoes if Natasha finds him first, that’s for sure.”

  
“Yeah.“

  
Clint winced as light danced across his vision. He snatched up his binoculars and jumped from his seat. He peered toward Sam’s shack. He was jumping up and down, waving wildly. Clint ran to the ladder and slid down and Phil followed close behind. They pushed the hefty gates open.

  
They sprinted through the wasteland, kicking up dust, hearts racing. They spotted them as they neared Sam’s shack: Steve Rogers and a shorter figure whose head was wrapped in a soiled, white cloth.

  
Steve leaned on the wooden fence, aching and tired. Sam jogged toward him with a first-aid kit in hand and a bottle of water. He brought in Steve for a loose embrace, patting him firmly on the back, making sure to avoid the line of bandages.

  
Phil and Clint were with them shortly, smiles brimming with relief, at a loss for words. Sam stepped back, hands moving to his hips.

  
“Goddammit, Rogers,” Sam managed, beaming. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  
Steve straightened up. “Sorry I kept you all waiting,” he managed.

  
“We all thought you’d died!” Clint added. “We were sure you’d been crushed by the wreckage, or drowned or burned up or…” Clint stopped himself and wrapped his arms around Steve.

  
“How in the world did you survive the fall? We saw the prototype burst into flame from the warehouse,” Phil said.

  
Clint parted from Steve and eyed the second figure who stood silent some yards off. Steve turned to the man and called him over.  
“I had some help from a friend,” Steve said, planting a hand on Frank’s shoulder.

  
Frank took the cue and begrudgingly unwrapped his head, revealing the peeling, dry flesh.

  
“You’re that ghoul! From the research facility,” Clint said.

  
“This has a name,” Frank croaked out. “Frank Addison.”

  
“Thank you, Frank. You did us all a great service,” Phil said.

  
Steve leaned against the fence and Sam took his arm over his shoulders, leading him to the shack. The rest followed him inside, where Frank gingerly unwrapped the wounds, ready to give them new bandages.

  
“You sure you don’t have a ghoul in the family, Rogers?” Frank asked. “You certainly heal like one.”

  
Steve chuckled. As soon as he was ready to go, he stood up, hands on his hips. “Where are the others? What’s the word on S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

  
“Fury and Stark are in Interstate planning a formal announcement on Pierce and Project Insight. Stark still has the files that Pierce referenced for Project Insight, as well as some damning evidence.”

  
Clint fell quiet, handing Steve the note. Steve held it close to read Natasha’s neat script.

 

“Gone to Hillside. Unfinished business.

-Nat”

 

“How long ago did she leave?” Steve asked, pulling on his armored jumpsuit.

  
“Early this morning,” Phil said.

  
“Do you mind if I borrow your rifle, Sam?” Steve said, headed toward the metal locker.

  
“You mean you’re heading out there? In your condition?”

  
“Of course,” Steve said, rummaging through the locker, making sure he had the proper ammunition.

  
“Then let us accompany you at least,” Phil said.

  
“Yeah, there’s no telling how many of Pierce’s goons are hiding out there,” Clint added.

  
Steve loaded the rifle. “I need to go alone. You’re needed in Sanctuary in case of an emergency. Besides,” Steve cocked the rifle, “I have unfinished business there as well.”

  
Steve wasn’t certain of where Bucky might have gone or if he remained in the area, but he had saved his life. He didn’t know where Bucky would turn, if he would return to cryogenic sleep in Hillside’s vault or if, without a firm hand and a commanding voice, he would turn to mindless killing. He couldn’t let him go so easily. Phil frowned, then saved his remonstrance when he saw the determined grit well up in Steve’s eyes.

  
“I can’t stop you, so I won’t try,” Phil said. “Just be careful, Cap.”

  
“I will,” Steve said.

  
A heavy silence fell over the group. Frank interrupted it, coughing into his fist and making his way toward the door. He yanked his turban from his pocket and began wrapping it around his head.

  
Sam stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  
“Back home.” Frank offered plainly.

  
“Not without introducing yourself to everybody first,” Sam said. “People will wanna know the one who saved Captain America.”  
Steve wasn’t certain, but he thought he saw a small, hesitant smile unfold on Frank’s face.

  
With a loaded rifle and a bag heavy with medicine and water, Steve burst onto the wasteland in a full sprint. In spite of his determination, images of dire straits flashed across his mind: Bucky wilting on the wasteland, alone and scared, Bucky facing a firing squad for his betrayal, Bucky beneath Natasha, blade to his throat.

  
He sprinted, avoiding the main roads and the nests he and Clint made note of. That all seemed so long ago. He was foolish to think things on the wasteland would remain so simple.

  
The sand rushed by. His sides no longer ached and he paused to remove the bandages. Only pink scars remained, ones to add to his collection. He chugged a bottle of water and continued on.

  
He heard the crackle of gunfire erupt about half a mile off. He approached the source, ducking behind an old convenience store, which stood on a low sloping hill. He brought the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the shallow, sandy basin. Three more shots burst out.

  
Three figures in makeshift armor had their sights set on a low-standing boulder at two o’clock.

  
“There’s nowhere to run!” one of them shouted.

  
Their quarry returned to answer. Steve quickly crept to the other side of the shop and re-adjusted his view. He saw a familiar patch of red hair behind the rock. Two more bullets ricocheted off the rock from the northwest. Two more guns man in plain clothes approached her position.

  
Natasha, shaking with anger, fumbled through her rucksack. She had used the last of her stun grenades escaping a ravenous deathclaw a few hours back and she was running low on ammo. She winced as she readjusted her position, keeping the weight off of her left thigh. She had gotten sloppy; never would she have gotten pinned down by mere raiders were it not for her burdened mind. Pierce’s gold locket weighed her down. Her reeling had led her into their trap. She swore.

  
Steve wrenched two rusty pipes from the store’s exterior. He rolled silently from the store nearer to the group as they repeated their hollow threats. Pipe extended in his long reach, he jumped out of cover. He swept low with his right arm, knocking two off balance and flipping into the dirt.

  
The two guards at 2 o’clock began firing. He flipped over the third one and the bullets whizzed by, missing him and the raider. With the force of his flip still behind him, he sent the second pipe flying toward their position. It spun through the air and collided into their chests, sending them breathlessly to the ground.

  
Natasha sprang out of cover, over to the fallen gunmen, aiming at point blank range. Steve planted his foot on one chest and kicked their weapons far from their reach.

  
“Are there any others?” Steve asked of the supine raiders. “Honesty will let you live.”

  
One spat the blood from his mouth along with two teeth while the other shook his head.

  
He nodded toward Natasha and she retrieved the weapons. Slowly they backed away from them as they stood up, limps shaking and swerving. They kept the raiders in their sights as they limped off, swearing.

  
As soon as they were out of sight, Natasha dropped their rusted rifles and hugged Steve tight, eyes squinting shut to hold back the tears and standing on the tips of her toes.

  
“You’re worse than a radroach,” she said. “Even cut in half, those things refuse to die.”

  
Steve smiled and patted her on the back. “I’m a pest, what can I say?”

  
She lowered herself and winced as she put weight on her left leg.

  
Steve crouched down to examine the hole in her jumpsuit.

  
“We gotta get this treated,” he said. He gently lifted her up in his arms and she reluctantly accepted the help.

  
He kicked in the door to the convenience store. It was quiet as a tomb. He set her on the checkout stand and rummaged through his bag, finding a pair of tweezers and disinfectant. She pulled up the pant leg and he got to work, pouring the strong-smelling liquid into a clean cloth and dabbing at the wound.

  
“You shouldn’t have come out here on your own, not when everything in tumult like this,” Steve reprimanded.

  
“I remember telling you the same thing not too long ago,” Natasha teased.

  
Steve retrieved a small dusty bowl and readied his tweezers. “This is going to sting.”

  
“I can handle it,” she said.

  
He carefully dug out bits of bullet and casing. The metal rattled as it hit the bowl. They were quiet as Steve worked. Steve looked up intermittently. Her eyes were distant and troubled, lacking their usual fierce clarity.

  
Once she was bandaged, Steve told her to sit and to keep weight off of her leg. Her stomach growled.  
“Rest,” Steve said. “I’ll get us some chow.”

  
She obeyed. As soon as Steve’s back was turned, she withdrew the locket from her sack, letting the chain dangle from the palm of her hand. Slowly she opened it, revealing the smiling faces once more. Her fingers ran over her mother’s picture. She couldn’t bring herself to examine the other.

  
She didn’t bother to hide it when Steve returned. He stood over her, a can of beans in each hand. She said nothing as she tucked it gently in her pocket. She took the can from Steve and ate silently. Steve did not press the issue further.

\+ + +

They neared Hillside’s stalwart fortress. Natasha had been silent the last leg of the journey. Steve left her to her privacy and Natasha returned the favor, though she had a betters idea of what Steve sought from Hillside’s vault.

  
There were no guards, no shining black sets of armor or rattling guns, no darkened visors or crackling prods. Indeed, the silence seemed to stretch ever onwards as they approached the gates.

  
Steve grasped one of the supporting rods and pushed with all his might. Sure enough, the metal door slid across the gravel and rock. Natasha slipped in first. The town seemed empty, but they both knew better. As Steve followed her to the vault, he felt dozens of eyes track their movement. Every so often, wispy silhouettes would creep by the windows, cautiously observing.

  
Loud echoes rang from the vaults halls. Natasha stopped at the foot of the hill and turned back to Steve, eyes steely and determined. Vault 44’s door was wide open and unguarded. In the low light, Steve could see the dark ichor of dried blood streaking across either side of the vault.

  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure dart past. Natasha caught her first. A small girl with flaxen hair clutched her doll, trembling with fear.

  
Natasha knelt down on her knees, gently assuaging the child.

  
“What’s wrong, little one?” she asked gently, making sure her hands were visibly empty.

  
The girl’s eyes darted to Steve, then back to Natasha.

  
“I-I was hiding,” she said quietly, knuckles white as her grip tightened on the doll.

  
“Did something scare you?”

  
“Yes,” the girl pointed up at the vault. “The Metal Man, he came back. He was real angry. I was out by the well—doing my chores—and I heard guns and screaming.” The girl’s eyes began to well with tears.

  
Steve looked up toward the vault. Resounding crashes and bangs continued to pour out from the empty hatch like a hollow cry. The girl wiped her eyes with her free hand.

  
“It will be okay. We’re here to help you.” Natasha looked over to Steve, but his gaze was still fixed on the vault. He was deep in thought. “Now where’s your mama? Do you know?”

  
The girl pointed to a shack in the southwestern corner of the village. A woman crept out of its front door. Her hair was tied back in a strict bun and she wore a grey smock. Her eyes were wide with shock and fright. With a shaking hand, she beckoned for the little girl to come over.

  
“You better get back to your mama, little one,” Natasha said, tucking the girl’s hair behind her ears. “Now you keep listening real hard, okay? Keep your mama inside nice and safe while we go talk with the Metal Man. Don’t come out until it is quiet. Do you understand?”

  
The girl nodded solemnly. Natasha stood and the girl ran to her mother, casting a thankful smile to Natasha.

  
She joined Steve and they ascended to Vault 40.

  
Steve’s heart raced as the approached the vault. The pounding of metal continued.

  
He gasped as they crossed the threshold. Bodies in Hillside armor were scattered left and right, blood streaking every direction. Some had metal rods curled effortlessly around their throats and others bled out from knife wounds. Steve stepped over the corpses as he traced the trail they had previously walked in chains.

  
As they descended, the metallic rancor grew to a deafening pitch. They crept slowly, unsure of what The Winter Soldier would do.

  
On the lab staircase, Steve spotted a familiar body draped over the steps. Her white lab coat was stained with spreading, red blotches and her mousy, brown hair was tangled and matted with dark stains. In her back was a blade embedded to the hilt.

  
The lights flickered on and off. For a moment, Steve was unsure if some of the bodies stirred. It was a trick of the light and the duress of the constant thrashing mere meters away.

  
The white sign that previously read “LABORATORY,” was cracked, hanging pathetically off of one bolt. Suddenly the crunching of metal and shattering of glass stopped. The debris settled and silence filled the metal corridors.

  
Natasha readied her stun gun, but Steve stayed her hand. His ears pricked up. He heard raggedly drawn breaths in the next room over. Steve met her gaze and she nodded. Natasha slid into the shadows.

  
Steve took a deep breath. His heart was in his throat. His hand slowly reached for the panel and pulled the lever. The door hissed open, revealing a room that Steve had not before seen.

  
In the center of the room were the remains of an elaborate apparatus. Wires and tubes cascaded from the ceiling, terminating in rough tears. The ends sparked and flashed. Scattered to the sides was crumpled metal and leather. He could make out an armrest with heavy, metal bindings. The seat of the chair was torn in two and embedded in the metal walls. A series of monitors and screens lined the chamber, but now hung empty and hollow, sparks issuing from the empty boxes and glass littering the floor beneath them.

  
The walls were dented and shredded and several shelves of medical tubes and pitchers lay shattered on the floor. In the center of the room, near the seat’s elaborate base, sat a lone figure, with brown, shoulder-length hair.

  
Bucky’s shoulders rose and sank with his rough breathing. He raised his left arm. In his metal hand he grasped a dome-like object. Wires and tubes shot out in crescents along the top. Inside, Steve spotted cathodes and pincers.

  
Bucky screamed as his hand crushed the dome, reducing it to scrap. He slammed the dome on the ground, making certain that all shape and function were utterly destroyed before hurling it to the opposite wall, where it clattered and fell into shadow.

  
The breathing continued and then stilled. Steve stood in the doorway, planning his next move when Bucky looked over his shoulder. His blue eyes were bloodshot and dry. Trickles of blood dried into brown at the corners of his mouth and on his forehead. His tactical vest had been cast to the side. Even in the low light, Steve could tell it was caked in fresh blood. It didn’t seem to be his own.

  
Steve gasped when his eyes ran over his shoulder; the seam between flesh and steel was brutal and rough and every motion of his arm seemed to agitate the bond. Bucky was still.

  
“Bucky,” Steve whispered.

  
Bucky rose to his knees. Steve held up his hands.

  
“I’m not going to hurt you. I would never do anything to hurt you,” Steve said, voice rigid.

  
Bucky stood up, clutching his hands in front of his chest. His face was struggling, as if attempting to two worlds of memory. His hair hung limp and ragged down to his shoulders. His wounds seemed stubborn, as if they refused to heal of their own accord.

  
Steve took one step forward, arms still raised. “I’m not going to hurt you, Bucky.” Steve repeated.

  
Bucky made no move to retreat, but his inner struggle continued to spread across his face. His lower lip trembled. His vocal chords would not cooperate.

  
Steve took another step. “You remember that name. I know you do.”

  
Bucky’s eyes darted to the left and right. He made an attempt to speak, but he quickly turned back the center of the room. His head angled up toward the ceiling and then down to the wreckage at his feet. His shoulders became loose—almost relieved. He turned again to Steve.

  
“I do,” he said quietly.

  
Another step. “And what about me? Do you remember my name?”

  
Bucky furrowed his brow. His hands clutched his locks on both sides of his head as he struggled. He was in pain.

  
“S-Steve. You’re Steve,” Bucky managed. The memory of pain shot between his synapses, leaving tremors in its wake.

  
“That’s right,” Steve choked out. Bucky lowered his hands. Steve closed the gap between them.

  
Bucky looked up into his eyes. Steve did not know how to proceed. He felt like he was walking on glass, which, at any moment, would crack and shatter. Bucky held his gaze.

  
Steve slowly raised his arms again. Bucky made no move, save for the trembling of his left arm.

  
In the span of what seemed like an eternity, Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. He pulled the wounded man to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders were rigid—his left shoulder still shaking.

  
He felt Bucky’s breath hot against his chest. Bucky’s shoulders heaved silently.

  
Steve continued to hold him, making small, placating circles against Bucky’s shoulder blades. Bucky tucked his head in the crook of Steve’s neck and wept. Steve felt waves of relief wash over him. Bucky’s breathing hitched.

  
Steve almost missed the soft mechanical whirring shoot up and down Bucky’s cybernetic arm.

  
The metal arm shot out, plates sliding and locking into place. Steve gasped. He felt cold metal curl around his neck, pressure quickly building, cutting off his air. The room swerved beneath him and he was lifted off of his feet. He clenched his teeth. His hands shot up to his throat.

  
Bucky’s face was a sinister scowl, his eyes cold and blank. Steve thrashed and struggled. He planted his boots against Bucky’s chest and thrust back. The hand lost its grip and Steve was in the doorway once more, gasping for breath.

  
He looked up again, scanning his surroundings for a means of containing the situation. Natasha darted to his side and readied her stun gun.

  
Bucky’s breathed in deep, heaving gulps. His eyes were wide in shock as he stared at his hands. His shoulders moved up and down and his jaw hung open. His left arm began twitching uncontrollably. With his right hand he held his wrist. The arm shot forward, but Bucky redirected it, punching a hole through the Vault’s steel wall.

  
He looked toward Steve, eyes wide and bewildered. “Get out of here. You have to get out of here!”

  
Steve’s arms spread wide and filled the doorway. “I’m not leaving, Bucky!”

  
Bucky frowned and cried out as the arm withdrew from the wall. “I can’t hurt you again. Go!”

  
He grunted as his cybernetic arm loosened itself from his grip and he dashed forward, tackling Steve against the corridor wall. Natasha nimbly sidestepped the impact and aimed her gun at Bucky.

  
“Natasha, don’t!” Steve implored.

  
Bucky dodged beneath the crackling wires and he spun around. His eyes were dewy and wet and he darted down the hall, into the dark.  
Steve removed himself from the dented wreckage and took off after him. Bucky darted left and right, begging Steve to leave him be, but he continued his pursuit.

  
But soon the halls began bleeding together and Steve got turned around. He stopped in his tracks. His ears continued tracing the heavy footfalls of Bucky’s boots, but the metal and pipes distorted the sound. He couldn’t seek out its source. He was lost in Vault 40.

  
Steve darted down one of the corridors, but the footsteps were quickly fading out of earshot. “No, no, no.”

  
In the distance, he heard a door hiss open and shut. He skid along the floor and swung around rapidly, listening intently. Only silence and the crackle of the wreckage met his ears. Steve clutched his head and leaned against the wall, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

He reeled back, slamming his fists into the pipe, causing them to shake and tremble beneath the force of the blow.

\+ + +

Natasha found him hours later in the mess hall, bouncing an old tennis ball against the wall, catching it at the same angle each time. His face was crestfallen.

  
In truth, she did not seek him out first, but instead raided the Vault’s data banks. In her right hand she held a hefty file. She opened it once more. A black and white photo was paper clipped to the left-hand side. The man known as James Buchanan Barnes was frozen in cryogenic sleep, face twisted. In it, his hair was still cropped short and the collar of his uniform was pressed and neat. From the frame of the glass panel, she could tell that it was Hydra’s chamber in which he slept.

  
But she had a mission of her own. Buried deep in her pocket was another hard drive. This one was for her eyes alone—Overseer Pierce’s personal diary. She had made certain that all of his computers were wiped clean of it, and that only the damning evidence of his political treachery remained. She alone possessed his diaries, the sole records of her youth, seen through a series of secret observers. She was unsure if she would read it.

  
She slowly approached Steve. He caught the ball and placed it in a nearby bowl. He stood up, but didn’t turn to face her.

  
“Steve...”

  
“I should have known his training would kick in—that he wasn’t all there.”

  
Natasha was silent. She held out the file to Steve.

  
“Maybe this will help.”

  
Steve looked at the file and took it into his large hands. His fingertips grazed the cover. In large, red letters was printed “Project Initiation.”  
“I gathered everything I could about his…treatment.”

  
Steve opened the file and he frowned at the photograph. He snapped the file shut.

  
“All of his training, his mental conditioning, the medical records concerning his cybernetic enhancement—all of it is in that file.” She placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “But I would be careful. I wouldn’t tug too hard on that thread.”

  
Steve placed the file on the table. “Thank you Natasha.”

  
She smiled softly and crossed her arms. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  
Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Ask you what?”

  
“Why I came here? What my ulterior motives were?”

  
Steve shook his head. “No.”

  
“No?”

  
“I trust you, Natasha. I know you’d do the same for me.”

  
Natasha sighed in relief. She stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around Steve’s shoulders and held him tight.

  
“You’re such a sap, Rogers,” she said fondly.

\+ + +

The days turned to weeks, then months. Steve had little time to scour the wasteland for Bucky, though, in his heart, he remained hopeful that he would return of his own accord and they could begin healing and mourning together.

  
However, in spite of his earnest hope, there was still so much to be accomplished, and Steve’s unwavering sense of duty would not let him rest for long.

  
Tales of the “The Battle of Lake Liberty,” as the locals had begun calling it, had spread throughout S.H.I.E.L.D., each telling becoming more elaborate but still miraculously centered on the truth. With so many of their leaders erased by Pierce’s hand, the vacuum of power had rapidly widened, exacerbated by hidden cells still loyal to Overseer Pierce’s eugenic vision.

  
Steve, Natasha, and Clint sought them out, most encounters ending with bloodshed. However, some gave themselves up to S.H.I.E.L.D., shocking many and arousing suspicion. Other residents were unable to accept or welcome these defectors, and in Drive-In and Endsville, the former Hydra members remained chastised and disempowered.

  
The wives of Hillside, many widowed and most relieved, began integrating themselves into the public, some claiming to be passersby and others open and truthful about their connections with Hydra and Alexander Pierce.

  
With the help of Phil Coulson, new mayors and militia organizers were soon found and instated in the many empty seats across the wasteland. In a surprising turn of events, Tony Stark rose to the occasion, filling Yvonne’s seat and quelling the unrest and disorder in Interstate, though the seat would eventually end up in the hands of someone less easily bored by the sometimes stale politics of Interstate’s neighbors.

  
Though not ideal, the road to organization and unity, under the leadership of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter, was becoming more and more a tangible reality. The ruins of the aircraft, though picked clean by scavengers and wasteland prospectors alike, remained a solemn reminder of what could have the start of another Great War.

  
After great effort, the vacuum was filled. The only seats left remaining were on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s highest political order—The Security Council.

\+ + +

Steve wiped the sweat from his brow, stepping back to admire their handiwork. Tony’s eye-bot whizzed down and joined the group, soldering irons cooling.

  
Sam’s smile was big and proud. Natasha, ever pragmatic, began inspecting the structure for holes and instabilities.  
“This looks mighty good, Rogers,” Sam said.

  
“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you guys. Steve said, clapping Sam on the shoulder.

  
Natasha finished her preliminary inspection, untying her hair and letting it fall to her shoulders, giving a thumbs-up. “She looks pretty sturdy. For now.”

  
Tony shot her a playful sneer. “Are you saying my blueprints aren’t up to snuff? You hurt me, Natasha.”

  
She dug in her rucksack, pulling out the half-empty locket and unclipping the delicate chain. “I just don’t want the damn thing collapsing on Steve while he’s asleep. He’s had enough rude-awakenings for one lifetime.” She turned and smiled. Steve crossed over to her, helping her with the chain’s tiny clasp.

  
“Very funny, Nat,” Steve said. “Sam, you have the time?”

  
Sam checked his watch. “We still have about four until the ceremony. Natasha, you and Tony can go get ready, I’ll help Steve with the furniture.” He looked toward the chairs and tables that littered the lot nearby.

  
Natasha gave Steve’s hand squeeze. “Alright, Sam. See you guys soon.” She and Tony walked off back to their camp and supplies. “Don’t be late.”

  
Meanwhile, a couple miles away in Sanctuary, Phil had just finished sealing his last box of comics when Clint showed up at the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes were cloudy and distracted as he looked around Phil’s office.

  
Phil put down the duct tape and crossed over to Clint, taking his hand and leading him to his desk.

  
“Something on your mind, Clint?”

  
Clint’s mouth screwed up small and he stared pensively at the boxes.

  
“Nothin’.”

  
Phil put his hands on his hips, tapping his toe in an exaggerated fashion. “I know when something’s bothering you. You can tell me.”  
Clint sat in Phil’s chair, watching the steel panels of their home fly by as he spun around. Phil placed a hand on the back of the chair, stopping Clint mid-rotation.

  
Clint scratched the back of his head and pouted. “I don’t wanna leave,” he said as he took Phil’s hand in his. He squeezed hard.  
“We’re just moving up the hill,” Phil said.

  
“Yeah but,” Clint picked his words carefully, “we built this place. Together. I don’t want some strangers coming in here and messing everything up.”

  
Phil leaned over and kissed Clint. “You know, you could’ve told me that before I got all my comics packed up.”

  
Clint smiled wide, eyes crinkling. “You mean we can stay here? You aren’t mad?”

  
Phil opened the desk drawer and handed him a pair of scissors. “Of course I’m not, Clint. However, you get to help me unpack my stuff.”

Phil crossed to the door. “I’ll go talk to Peggy and Bruce now. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  
Clint, still smiling, jumped to his feet and began unsealing the boxes.

  
“And Clint?”

  
He looked up from the boxes. Phil tried to lay down a stern glare, but he could not hide his fond smile. “You’re re-shelving my collection. Alphabetically by author, series, edition and condition. You understand?”

  
Clint saluted and slid the edge of the scissors down the duct-tape’s seam. He’d be there for hours, and that wasn’t counting Phil’s action figures and newspaper clippings and textbooks.

\+ + +

Steve decided to do away with the bowtie, instead opting for the slightly stained silk tie Sam traded for. If he tied it right, the stain would not show beneath his blazer. He also figured that the lights in Fury’s old home were dim enough to start with, and that no one would notice it anyway, even if it were exposed.

  
As he finished the neat knot, his eyes glided away from his reflection to a laminated clipping tucked in the corner of his cracked mirror. It was a local piece on an appearance he had made many years ago. He was in his military best, attending a conference down in New York City where he was the keynote speaker.

  
The photo itself was amateurish and bland, but, tucked in the corner was Bucky’s face, smiling proudly mid-applaud. Steve ran his fingers over the plastic, taking in the smile.

  
“Soon, Bucky. Soon.”

  
He put his nicer shoes in his rucksack. Before buttoning his jacket, he holstered a gun and a stun grenade, making sure both were securely fastened. As he left the door, his finger paused on the generator. He took another look at the living room of his new home, admiring the sturdiness of the structure. Tony really outdid himself with the design, imitating some interiors he had seen in the magazines that passed hands in Interstate.

  
He shut off the generator and the lights strung along the seams of the interior shut off. He fastened the lock, making sure twice that the door was shut tight before shoving off to Sanctuary.

  
About halfway to Sanctuary, he heard five powerful rounds explode into the night followed by echoing, vicious roars. He paused, reaching for his gun. Steve identified the cry as a group of deathclaw pups. He said a silent prayer for the wandering party and continued on his route.

  
He arrived in short order. The gates cracked open. Up and down the streets white lights were strung from a series of posts. He crouched down near the gates and untied his bootlaces, slipping on his dress shoes. Several onlookers complimented him on his appearance. “Old World Glory,” they called him. Steve did not correct them—it was the name of a pre-war deodorant brand.

  
Instead, he smiled graciously and waved, making a note to compliment Sam on his caravan’s organization; several stands and carts had been gathered, each serving fanciful, extravagant dishes.

  
Tonight was the beginning of a New Era for S.H.I.E.L.D., and Steve was glad that Sanctuary at last had something to celebrate.  
“Very dashing, Rogers,” Natasha said. She wore long, tattered evening gloves with a long, sweeping skirt topped with a near-pristine blouse and matching shawl. The gold locket dangled from her neck, perfectly framed by the neckline.

  
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who dressed up,” Steve said.

  
“You’re not very good at compliments are you?”

  
“Sorry. I meant that you look stunning, Natasha.”

  
Natasha fancifully flicked open a paper fan. “Why thank you, Mr. Rogers,” she said behind its ridge.

  
She looked down at her skirt and pinched it between her fingers. “It was Phil’s idea, mostly. I was just going to throw my catsuit before he intervened.”

  
“Well you’ll be the talk of the town, regardless.”

  
“That’s not good,” Natasha chuckled. “Russian spies aren’t supposed to be the talk of towns.”

  
Steve chuckled and took her hand when she offered it and led them up the hill. Sanctuary’s citizens were laughing and drinking and enjoying the rare fecundity of food and drink. Whispered rumors flowed between the onlookers—that Tony Stark footed the bill for the occasion, that Hillside’s vault experimented on genetically engineered deathclaws, or that Steve and Natasha were secretly an item.

  
The door swung open to meet them. The newly elected officials were all in attendance, save for Endsville’s mayor, who was running late. A large circular table was set in the middle of the living room, lined by mismatched seats. Garlands of lights were strung along the ceiling and a warm, enticing scent floated out of the kitchen. The affair was surreal to Steve, who had long thought that such opulence had literally evaporated during the Great War.

  
Still, he savored every moment of their meeting’s pre-amble and the rarely encountered relaxing atmosphere. Peggy approached Steve at the front door, dressed in an elegant, red gown.

  
“My mother’s,” she told him. She hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks.

“You’re looking well. Sam tells me that the construction of your new home has finally concluded.”

  
Steve smiled. “Just moved in today, as a matter of fact.”

  
“The location is perfect,” Natasha added. “Steve will be able to travel between the settlements at a moment’s notice.”

  
“I’m sure they will be glad to hear it,” Peggy said. “Though, I’m curious to see how the new officials will adjust in their new roles without all of our hand-holding,” she mused.

  
Bruce approached them. “Peggy?” he said, handing her a sheet of paper, “I had some notes about some of the wording in your presentation.” He adjusted his glasses and fiddled with his jacket buttons, as if he were unused to the constraining tailoring.

  
“Of course,” Peggy said. “If you’ll both excuse me.”

  
Steve nodded. Peggy and Bruce sequestered themselves in the back room.

  
Clint, equally confined in his black jacket, told the delegates and representatives of their coordinated efforts to fell the prototype. Phil reined in the more extravagant flourishes of Clint’s tale while Natasha smiled softly, enjoying his colorful take on the proceedings. Sam did little to help the matter, saying Steve practically rose from the dead after the crash, while Tony made a mock-show of mourning his magnum opus, making grand laments with his empty champagne glass.

  
Steve wandered over to the front foyer, where he at last found Fury. He was dressed in his normal trench coat, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out the front window.

  
“Is something wrong?”

  
Fury turned to him with something between a smile and a grimace. “Isn’t there always?” He cast his gaze across the room. “Christie Jones still hasn’t arrived yet.”

  
“From Endsville? Well, there is that small nest of deathclaws along that route. They would have to take the long way around if they wanted to avoid them.”

  
“Still,” Fury said simply, looking at his watch, “we shouldn’t count them out of the woods yet.” Fury shuffled in his boots, gaze still fixed on the gate.

  
Tony put down his spoon and glass and took his place near the front of the room. The delegates and elected officials took their seats around the vast table. Natasha waved Steve over. He took his seat between her and Sam. Tony stood before them behind a makeshift podium.

  
“I hope everyone has been enjoying the proceedings,” Tony said with a slight drawl. “But, as always, business and pleasure must go hand-in-hand. So let’s get this business over with so we can get to the good part, shall we?” Tony took a large swig. “It is my esteemed honor to present to you one of the most kick-ass people in the wasteland, and someone I’m pleased to call my friend, Mr. Steve Rogers.”

  
A soft applause erupted through the table as Steve rose and took Tony’s spot at the rickety podium. His gaze swept through the officials and VIPs. Their faces ranged from glowing smiles to austere frowns, but each and every one was glad to be there, Steve knew. His eyes lingered on Jones’s empty seat, but he did not let it distract him.

  
“What a sight you all are,” Steve said brightly. “In a few short months we have staved off a second Great War, disrupted the rising anarchy in the power vacuum and democratically elected new leaders for our New Era. It was only through our dedication to teamwork and cooperation that S.H.I.E.L.D. was reborn and it is only through our mutual responsibility that peace is maintained.”

  
Steve cleared his throat and looked to Carter. “As a new member of her Security Council, I know first hand the obstacles and hardships that this endeavor throws our way. One of us here has known that struggle since long before S.H.I.E.L.D.’s founding, one who had helped author the Concordat in the name of peace and cooperation. It is my honor to introduce to you all Margaret Carter, our returning member to the Security Council.”

  
Another applause swept through the crowd. She glided elegantly to the front of the room. Steve shook her hand and returned to his seat between Sam and Natasha.

  
“Thank you, councilman Rogers, for the flattering introduction,” she bowed slightly and turned to address the crowd. “It is an privilege to once again serve you all, one that I endeavor to earn each and every day. Though for the time being we enjoy quiet, uneventful days, we each know that the wasteland has plans all its own, one to whose challenge we must continually rise.

  
“To that end, we on the Security Council will put in place new programs and safeguards to protect the citizens of S.H.I.E.L.D.: lowering the cost of medicine and basic supplies through smart, efficient trade with our neighbors, ensuring that our roads are better maintained and secured, and, most importantly, addressing our own citizens with democratic transparency.” She smiled and looked to Bruce as the audience broke into another applause.

  
Peggy began to thank her listeners when the alarm sounded. Maria burst through the front door. “We have a situation,” she barked.  
Steve and Natasha immediately stood in their seats, dashing toward the door. The light flickered on top of Sanctuary’s gate—their code for a medical emergency.

  
Steve stayed the officials as he rushed out the door with Sam and Natasha in tow. The revels had quieted as the townspeople backed into their homes, eyes glued to the gates. They slowly swung open.

  
A small group limped through their gates. A woman with dark, curly hair led them, helping along a guard who drifted on the edge of consciousness. Five others followed her: three gunmen and two in jumpsuits.

  
“I’ll get the doctor,” Sam said, rushing to the western part of Sanctuary.

  
Steve and Natasha were at the woman’s side. She knelt down on the ground near the guard, who had now fallen unconscious.  
“Christie Jones?” Steve asked.

  
The woman nodded and turned her attention to the guard. “A pack of deathclaws were traveling out of their nest on our detour. They blindsided us. Got my brother real bad in the side. Goddammit,” she said.

  
“How did you make it out of there?” Natasha asked. “Just one of those things can bring down a unit if caught off-guard.” The gates slowly swung closed, giving Christie a chance to gather her thoughts.

  
“I don’t know what went down—it all happened so fast. I heard a bunch of gunshots coming from the crags nearby. Someone must have been there—I saw the barrel flashing from our position. Whoever it was a real good shot. They caught most of them right between the eyes, even though they were giving chase and clawing at our backs.” She let out an exhausted chuckle. “If they hadn’t’ve been there, we’d all be dead, that’s for sure.”

  
Steve’s heart pounded in his chest, but he did not pursue the thought. The doctor was at her brother’s side, cutting open his shirt and armored vest, assessing and treating the wound right in the middle of the path. Christie rose to her feet, knowing that she shouldn’t get in the way.

  
Natasha led her to Fury’s house, reassuring her of their doctor’s skill. Sam took the guards to the barracks, telling them to grab everything they needed from the food carts. “Looks like you all need a strong one,” he said with a chuckle.

  
When they re-entered the house, Natasha showed Christie to the bed, telling her to rest and that she would be filled in on the meeting’s notes. Steve assuaged the officials, saying that there was no immediate threat. Bucky lingered at the edges of his mind. He dismissed him when Fury took his place at the podium next.

  
“I know you all are riled up but, as they say, the show must go on. I want to thank Carter for taking her seat again. I know that she’ll do you all proud.” He straightened his sooty tie, loosening it and letting it dangle from his collar.

  
Fury gripped the edges of the podium. “I won’t bore you all with a fancy speech. As I’m sure you’re all aware, I am voluntarily ending my tenure on the Security Council. Though we have all come a long way since our sad state of affairs months back, there are some who believe that I had deeper connections with Project Insight and Vault 40. So, for the sake of defusing the bomb, I welcome Phil Coulson onto the Council.”

  
Phil stood and bowed. Clint beamed at his side, gripping his hand tightly.

  
“Do us proud, Phil.”

  
“I will. Thank you, Fury.”

\+ + +

Tony was snoring quietly in the roost’s chair. Clint and Phil were off in their own world, gazing at the remaining stars. Steve and Natasha stood near the edge of the wall’s edge while Sam finished off the last of his Fancy Lad snack cakes.

  
“Where will you go?” Steve had asked Fury, secluded in his back office.

  
“Thinking about doing some traveling. It’s a big world out there—uncharted territory for the most part. Who knows, maybe there’s another S.H.I.E.L.D. out there who will appreciate an old man’s wisdom.”

  
Fury offered his hand and Steve shook it. “When are you heading out?”

  
“I’ll need to gather supplies for the trip, yet,” Fury said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And then there’s this,” he reached in his pocket, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes, which he promptly slammed into the nearby wastebasket. “Been meaning to quit for a while now.”

  
Steve’s eyes readjusted as the sun began peeking above the horizon. Behind them, Sanctuary was quiet, full and satisfied, ready to begin a new chapter.

  
Natasha yawned, stretching her arms. “This is going to sound bad,” she started.

  
“What?”

  
“I’m sort of glad you were put on ice.”

  
Steve chuckled and punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Wow,” was all he could say.

  
“I’m serious,” she said, smile fading. “If you hadn’t then…the wasteland wouldn’t be the same, that’s all.”

  
“You got that right,” Clint added from his corner.

  
“You mean we would all be dead,” Phil said.

  
“Well, yeah,” Clint sighed, “that too.”

  
Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Not everyday you meet a celebrity. You might be the last of your kind,” he said with a grin.  
“I resent that,” Tony said in a long drawl. He met Steve’s eyes and smiled.

  
Steve didn’t have the words to express how thankful he was for his new family. Though not perfect, the wasteland was his new home and his new duty. He knew the struggle was long from over, but he met the sunrise with a firm resolve and faith sparking in his heart.

\+ + +

The sun was high by the time he returned home. There was no urgency behind his steps. The real work would begin tomorrow for all of S.H.I.E.L.D., though he was sure to dispatch messengers to warn the other settlements about the new deathclaw nests before he left Sanctuary’s borders.

  
He stuck his key in the lock and wandered inside. Bright light filtered through the bars on his windows. He slid an arm out of his jacket, eyes wandering over the living room furniture. He froze.

  
He hung the jacket on the hook by the door. He took three, hesitant steps. He could not believe his eyes. Laid out on his coffee table was his shield. It was polished to a mirror-like shine, though chips in the paint still littered its surface. He picked it up slowly, testing its weight. There was no mistaking it. This was the genuine article.

  
He clutched the shield in one hand. The door was locked when he left and when he returned. Someone was still here. He crept slowly from room to room, finding each empty and undisturbed.

  
Slowly he ascended the steps, making not a sound. A column of light flooded the stairwell. His bedroom door was open.

  
He slid over to the gap, leaning to inspect the room. The mattress dipped under someone’s weight, though he could not see the intruder.  
Slowly he put his hand on the door. He eased it open another inch. His eyes widened. His heart raced. He nearly dropped his shield.

  
He eased it open another inch, to make certain that his blind hope did not make his eyes equally so. But there he was.

  
Bucky’s hair hung in his face. In his lap was Steve’s old uniform, still scorched and sooty from The Battle of Lake Liberty. His eyes were clearer, more lucid, but filled with hurt as he ran his hands over the bullet holes, making small, mournful circles over the copper stains.  
The floorboard creaked beneath his weight. The door swung open and Bucky’s eyes were on him, searching. Steve stood in the doorway, unsure of what the man would do.

  
Slowly he lowered his shield, raising his hands in a gesture of assuaging peace. Bucky folded the suit and placed it on the bed, rising to his feet.

  
He made no effort to run and he was unarmed, save for the bulging cybernetic arm. Steve was cautious, but Bucky was still.  
“Bucky,” Steve said.

  
Bucky did not reply.

  
“You came back,” Steve said, confidence rising in his chest. He crossed the gap, drawing nearer to his quarry. “I can’t believe it, you came back.”

  
Bucky was quiet, but he accepted Steve’s approach, the edges of his mouth twitching, brow furrowed. His left arm was rigid. He stood up from the bed.

  
When he was at arm’s length, Bucky reached out with his right hand, stroking Steve’s cheek, feeling a warm trickle run over his fingers. Steve placed his hand over Bucky’s, reveling in the warm touch.

  
“I’ve waited so long, Bucky,” he said in a choked sob. “So long.”

  
Bucky shushed him and brought Steve closer. He eyed the uniform then buried his head in Steve’s shoulder. “I…I hurt you,” his eyes squinted shut as the images assaulted him. “I didn’t know, Steve. I didn’t know. Goddammit…”

  
Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist, holding him tight and shushing him. “It’s not your fault, Buck. I never blamed you for what happened.”

  
He felt tremors rise and fall in Bucky’s chest as he sobbed. Steve’s eyes wandered to the edges of his bedroom. In the corner, he saw a scoped rifle. The box of ammo was half empty.

  
Bucky’s looked up at Steve. His eyes were bloodshot and red, but no longer was the veil covering them so.

  
“I tried,” Bucky said. “I tried so hard to do good, but I couldn’t break away. I tried to kill you. I nearly succeeded.”

  
Steve raised his hand, clearing the hair from Bucky’s eyes and tucking the brown locks behind his ears. “You did good, Buck. You saved those people from Endsville, you tried sabotaging the prototype and…you saved me.”

  
Bucky’s hands returned to Steve’s head and guided him down roughly to his mouth. Bucky’s tongue was wild and searching and savoring. Steve returned the kiss, letting delight fill him whole. Bucky’s grip remained tight and Steve returned it.

  
They parted. Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but was at a loss for words. He could only manage to pull Steve tightly to his chest, as if Steve would evaporate into thin air.

  
“You kept your promise,” Steve said at last.

  
“What promise?” Bucky murmured.

  
“You said you’d be with me till the end of the line,” Steve said softly, rocking back and forth slowly, feeling Bucky’s breath on his neck, his hair brush across his cheek and the rough, calloused hand stroke his back.

  
“I said that?” he said. The confusion stung Steve, but he let it go. Soon he would remember more, Steve reasoned. For now, whispered sweet reassurances into Bucky’s ear. Bucky accepted them, his breathing evening out and his hands loosening their grip to caress Steve’s shoulders.

  
Steve whispered in to his ear. “This isn’t the end, Buck. This is just the beginning.”

  
Bucky pulled back, unleashing a playful grin Steve had not laid eyes on in over two hundred years.

 


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to earn that rating.

 

True to their word, the members of the new Security Council initiated a series of reforms: better management of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s roads, open political forums and the eventual redrafting of the Concordat, the last measure spear-headed by Peggy Carter herself.

 

The first constitutional reform to take place was the division of power of the Security Council. Soon the council was joined by the Trader’s Guild, and the Department of Science and Health, the latter being led by Dr. Bruce Banner who continued to fervently deny the rumors concerning The Rogue Mutant.

 

Though the citizens of S.H.I.E.L.D. welcomed the restructuring of power and Carter’s return, she still kept Vault 42 hidden from the larger body politic. A patient and practical woman, she knew that a dire time would eventually arrive when Vault 42 and its resources would be needed once more.

 

She bided her time, praying that the day would never come.

 

\+ + +

 

Phil Coulson proved to be a levelheaded leader and ambassador. Eventually, he was elected Sanctuary’s mayor in addition to earning a second term on the Security Council.

 

Clint Barton, with the support of the council, established a formal training program for new recruits, The Hawkeye Initiative, adventuring out and picking by hand the most promising marksmen from all of S.H.I.E.L.D., with Captain Steve Rogers advising.

 

Maria Hill remained in Sanctuary for several years after The Battle of Lake Liberty, becoming one of the head instructors of The Hawkeye Initiative. Even years later, she still referred to herself as a simple mercenary.

 

Phil and Clint would remain in their house, the one they had built together at the bottom of the hill. It was the only place they would ever call “home.”

 

During his time on the council with Steve Rogers, Coulson eventually packed up his boxes of Captain America comics and memorabilia and donated the proceeds of their sale to Barton’s training program.

 

When asked why, he merely smiled, saying that he simply did not need them any longer.

 

\+ + +

 

With the help of the newly founded Trader’s Guild, Sam Wilson would become instrumental in establishing trade routes in and out of S.H.I.E.L.D. His brahmin were known far and wide for their durability and reliability.

 

When offered a lucrative ranching contract on the outside, Sam politely declined, saying that his heart was with S.H.I.E.L.D. He and Steve Rogers remained neighbors for many years, until rival ranchers set fire to his base of operations outside of Sanctuary.

 

The Trader’s Guild was quick to respond, cutting off all ties with the ranchers involved, rupturing their routes and putting an end to their trading endeavors. It would be known as the first economic sanction of the New Era. The Security Council and Trader’s Guild awarded Wilson with special honors for finding and pursuing the most peaceful line of retaliation.

 

In the end, Wilson persevered with Earl as his prized breeding bull.

 

\+ + + 

 

Though Tony Stark and the Department of Science and Health often clashed, he and Dr. Bruce Banner became fast, if argumentative, friends. The two collaborated on many projects, most notably a refinement of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s irrigation system and the eventual cleansing of Lake Liberty.

 

To fund his independent projects, Stark quickly gathered contacts in the Trader’s Guild, using them to export a small number of his customized plasma-based weaponry to the outside. Stark Weapons would quickly become the most sought after armaments in the wasteland.

 

However, The Security Council, at the behest of Steve Rogers, intervened, cutting off the flow of his wares and fining Stark Weapons a hefty sum. He and Rogers eventually reached a compromise; Stark could continue export, but only in standard weapon models. Despite the clash, neither held it against one another; the collected fine would eventually go toward a formal engineering lab situated in Interstate, one where Stark works to this day.

 

Rumor has it that he is working on a new weapon, code-named “Iron Man.”

 

\+ + + 

 

Natasha Romanov would be seen little in the months after the formation of the new Council. She had informed Rogers that she would be investigating Vault 40’s records and history, swearing him to secrecy. Romanov claimed that it would be for the better if such patterns of manipulation and brainwashing were known so they could better treated and stymied. Rogers agreed.

 

She found little remaining about her mother, but what she did find was promising; she was vocal and upstanding in the face of oppression and that she openly endorsed suffrage for the ostracized women of Vault 40. Though the records were sparse, a part of her mind was put at ease.

 

Romanov would remain a dear friend to Rogers, visiting his home unexpectedly in the night, sometimes remaining for several days and sometimes leaving as soon as she arrived.

 

Romanov still found it hard to look Bucky Barnes in the eye. Though the Soldier instrumental in her mother’s assassination had long since vanished, she still struggled with his unwilling involvement. To this day, she carries this secret.

 

Eventually, she would lead top-secret reconnaissance missions out into the wider wasteland, plunging into the unknown with Barton and sometimes Rogers himself. The council was quick to label these missions not as expansionism, but the prelude to ambassadorship.

 

The political distinction mattered little to her.

 

\+ + + 

Little would be heard from Nicholas Fury, former Director of the Security Council. Though letters arrived by courier bearing his signature, they were few and far in between. Many believed him to have perished on his travels and the rest concocted extravagant folktales of his accomplishments abroad.

 

Though Rogers knew better, he prayed for his safe return. He knew he would welcome Fury as an old friend.

 

\+ + + 

 

 

Though his efforts and notable contribution were made known far and wide, Frank Addison, unused to fame and inquiry would become more and more reclusive as time passed.

 

Save for his sparing visits to Sanctuary and to Rogers’s home, few would see or speak to the “Savior Ghoul.” In spite of this, he and Rogers continue to exchange letters to this day. Rogers has recently encouraged Addison to pen a memoir, to tell the world of his long, enduring life.

 

He said he would consider it.

 

\+ + +

 

The transition from his life as The Winter Soldier proved a trying and difficult time for both Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. For months after their reunion, he would wake in the night, his horrific training and ordeals at the front of his mind, convinced that Rogers was still a target. Always, Rogers managed to calm him and remind him that those ordeals, though excruciating in their cruelty, were long since past. Still he felt pangs of guilt far worse than any punishment Hydra had enacted upon him. It was something they had to tackle together.

 

Though his memory was slow to return, and long passages of their shared history remained beyond his reach, Barnes knew that his place was at Rogers’s side, in the heat of battle and in the warmth of their home on the wasteland plains.

 

The two wrestled with Barnes’s identity as the Winter Soldier. On one hand, they knew they had to be honest about his involvement with Hydra’s assassinations and on the other, they knew retaliation would be blind and harsh if the secret ever came to light.

 

In the end, Rogers wanted Barnes to make the call. He gave Barnes all the time in the world.

 

\+ + + 

 

Steve Rogers was much beloved by his constituency, going on to serve the maximum consecutive terms allowed by the revised S.H.I.E.L.D. Concordat.

 

On the terrifying frontier, scattered in the ashes of the Great War, Steve Rogers finally attained the sense of purpose and agency that was long-languishing by the end of the Resource Wars and extinguished in atomic fire. With S.H.I.E.L.D. and the help of his friends, he built bridges into new territory, leading peaceful talks where they were welcome and subduing raiders and slavers with a firm hand.

 

Rogers maintained that rehabilitation and integration were the first paths to be followed. He spearheaded several projects to that end, founding two rehabilitation clinics and psychological treatment centers for those who willingly defected from raider gangs and war-hordes.

 

Always he recognized the necessity of cooperation and communication between the settlements of S.H.I.E.L.D. Though his seat on the Council was his official station, in reality, he served every office of S.H.I.E.L.D., doing the best he could to improve the lives of his wards and friends.

 

However, in spite of his many future accomplishments, the one that filled him with the most pride was remaining at Bucky’s side.

 

\+ + + 

 

 

**One Year Later…**

 

 

The moon hung high and full over the wasteland, casting it into long, blue shadows. The group had long since dispersed, travelling back to Sanctuary for the night before the negotiations with the Bitter Roads Gang began the next morning. It was a complicated affair, one that involved the primary players of each branch of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new government.

 

Steve looked over to Bucky, who approached him with an expression he had not openly worn since before the Great War. Steve watched him slide into his lap, legs dangling over his thighs.

 

He rested his palms on Steve’s cheeks and lowered his mouth to Steve’s. He opened up and accepted Bucky’s tongue, feeling it lash gently against his own. He brought his own hands up and ran them through Bucky’s brown hair, tucking it behind his ears so he could better see, better believe, the man before him.

 

“I think I’m ready,” Bucky said, hands sliding to Steve’s broad shoulders.

 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked. He gripped Bucky’s thighs, giving them a squeeze. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

 

Bucky shook his head. “I’m sure. I’ve waited long enough.” A mischievous grin spread on his face. “We both know that his is long overdue.”

 

Steve glanced to the door, making certain it was locked. “All right,” he said, matching Bucky’s grin, eyes darting up and down Bucky’s muscular frame. “Get upstairs, I’ll be with you in a little bit.”

 

Bucky smiled and kissed Steve again, playfully biting Steve’s bottom lip.

 

Steve stood, inspecting the first floor. He went to the front door, confirming it was locked and bolted. Out of the window, he was able to see that the perimeter alarms were armed and ready. The bars over the windows were firm and the back entrance was locked as well.

 

Then he made his way to the kitchen area, grabbing a wet cloth and boiling a small pot of water. His heart thud in this throat as he waited for the water to bubble. His hands trembled at the thought of Bucky upstairs, waiting for him. Already he felt his cock swell.

 

He grabbed a clean rag from the nearby shelf, dipping it into the steam water. He let it cool for a moment, putting it in a clean bowl, then proceeding upstairs.

 

Bucky was waiting for him on the bed, still clothed, a languid, expectant smile wide on his face. Steve set the bowl on the rickety side-table.

 

“Sit up,” Steve said. Bucky obeyed.

 

He planted a chaste kiss against Bucky’s cheek and his fingers got to work, moving slowly down Bucky’s chest, leaving the fabric slack in his wake. His chest was warm. Steve felt the heavy beating of Bucky’s heart as his fingers worked.

 

Steve guided the shirt off of Bucky’s shoulders, letting it fall to the mattress. His fingers lingered near Bucky’s belt. He playfully slid a finger beneath, teasing with his nail. Bucky leaned back on his elbows, eyes fixed on Steve as his nail continued tracing a delicate, pink line in his skin.

 

Steve knelt down. Bucky squirmed beneath him, growing more and more impatient. Steve grinned.

 

In an instant, the buckle and fly were undone. Bucky’s cargo pants pooled around his ankle. Steve gripped him through his tattered boxers, letting his palm drag against Bucky’s delicate skin through the threadbare cloth.

 

Bucky groaned. A small wet spot spread near the tip. Steve lunged forward, greedily mouthing along Bucky’s shaft, making the spot grow wider. Bucky bit his lip. His hand grazed the top of Steve’s head then latched onto the back of his head, scratching and guiding and begging.

 

Steve looked up at him through his lashes. “How about we get these boxers off, hmm?”

 

Bucky could only nod. He lifted his hips. Steve grasped the hem of his boxers and tugged them down. Bucky’s cock bounced.

 

“Now you,” Bucky managed.

 

Steve leaned backward and Bucky forward. His fingers rapidly worked down Steve’s shirt. Bucky wrenched it off and balled it up, tossing it to the corner of the room. His hands moved down his chest. The air against his skin sent a shiver through Steve. Bucky pinched the firm peaks of Steve’s nipples and tugged him close.

 

Their teeth clicked together as they opened up, accepting each other’s warmth. Steve moaned as Bucky continued his play. He felt a grin bloom against his lips.

 

“Stand up,” Bucky said.

 

He made quick work of the buckle and button. Bucky lacked Steve’s subltety. He wrenched down the briefs. He playfully stroked Steve, letting his precome glisten on his fingers. He looked up.

 

“Can I?”

 

Steve breathed in deep, nodding emphatically. Bucky opened wide and took Steve, moaning as he did so. Steve threw back his head. With his spare hand, he played with Bucky’s hair, letting the pleasure race unabated through his system.

Bucky’s head bobbed in a steady, practiced rhythm. Steve groaned and looked down, meeting Bucky’s gaze, which was foggy with pleasure. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Steve turned to the side table and grabbed the washcloth. He dipped down. His arms hooked beneath Bucky’s armpits and he heaved him onto the bed. Steve rested between Bucky’s thighs.

 

Bucky again lifted his hips, hissing as the warm cloth moved between the cleft of his cheeks. Steve teased him with his index finger. Bucky jumped at the sensation. Steve stopped immediately.

 

Bucky’s eyes went wide as he stroked Steve’s arm. “No, no, it felt good, Steve. Don’t stop.”

 

Steve dismissed his nerves and continued. He pulled open the drawer, retrieving the bottle of Vis-Co’s petroleum jelly. He dipped his fingers in, letting Bucky spread them down his knuckles.

 

Bucky readjusted himself, spreading his legs wider. Steve eased the first finger in, earning a pleased, nostalgic groan from Bucky’s lips.

 

“Oh god, Buck,” Steve murmured. He slid the second in once Bucky was eased open. He bit his lip as Steve moved in deeper.

 

Steve leaned over, skin on skin, mouth breathing Bucky’s air, tasting his tongue, reveling at the impossibility of their survival.

 

Steve ran his clean hand down Bucky’s torso, eyeing him intensely.

 

“Are you ready, Bucky?”

 

“Always am,” he answered, face flushed and red and sweat glistening on his skin.

 

Steve palmed a generous dollop of Vis-Co’s up and down his shaft. He rose to his knees and crept closer. He lined up with Bucky, giving him a moment to brace himself. He eased himself in. Bucky squinted. A satisfied moan flowed through his lips as Steve’s cock settled inside.

 

Steve shifted his weight on the bed. A jolt ran through Bucky and he gripped the sheets.

 

“Oh god, Steve,” Bucky groaned. Steve began sliding in and out, slowly at first, then gathering nerve and speed.

 

Bucky’s eyes shot open as the head ran over that spot they both loved. As Steve ran over it again, Bucky’s hands shot out, grasping the back of his neck and pulling him in closer.

 

Steve continued until his gentle movements gave way to hard thrusts. The frame skid along the floor, the metal headboard repeatedly hitting the wall. Bucky’s mouth was open, but his lungs were spent. His world spun, focused only on that one point Steve deftly caught and stroked.

 

Steve dipped down again, catching Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth, breathing in his familiar smell, letting their sweat mingle and gather.

Bucky hooked his arms around Steve’s neck, moaning over his shoulder, sending tingles down Steve’s side. Steve continued to thrust inside, savoring the tenderness of Bucky’s whimpers and the lines of scratches streaking across his back.

 

His voice began to peak. “Oh god. Oh god, I’m close,” Bucky managed between whimpers.

 

“Let me take you there, Buck,” Steve muttered. He reified his efforts, forgetting his pleasure and focusing instead on Bucky’s.

 

Bucky bit his thumb, his body remembering the countless nights he had to withhold his voice, lest the neighbors hear through the paper-thin walls. Steve backed up, Bucky reached upwards with his right hand. Steve took his arm in his hand. He lined his fingers up with his lips. Bucky explored his mouth with his fingers. Steve squinted his eyes shut, sucking on the tips of his fingers and ceaselessly plunging into him.

 

The image broke him. Bucky gasped as he spilled against his stomach in heavy spurts. He swore. Steve took Bucky’s hand and lined it with soft kisses as he continued his plunder.

 

Bucky reached up with both hands, finding the familiar peaks punctuating Steve’s muscular chest. He squeezed hard. Steve threw his head back and he followed Bucky to his cloud.

 

His breath was deep and filled with effort. Steve collapsed down into Bucky, his cock sliding out of him as he crept up the bed.

 

He swung his leg around Bucky’s hips, grasping him with every limb. He couldn’t help the lone tear that escaped.

 

“Bucky,” Steve murmured softly.

 

Bucky, still on his cloud and the rush of the touch so long withheld, turned to Steve.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I love you. So damn much.”

 

He ran his hand through Steve’ hair. “You too.”

 

They watched the sun dip behind the rocky crags and barren branches, casting the sand and rock into vivid purple and orange. They watched the wasteland slip into night, warmed by the other’s sweet caress, both still partially believing that the other’s warmth would end as a bittersweet dream. Steve buried his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, breathing deeply. The lingering cloud of guilt that had clouded his mind had been peacefully dispersed, remaining only a bitter memory far on the horizon. With Bucky’s soft breathing at his side, he was able to fall into deep, restful sleep, forgetting for a small moment the endless obstacles and atrocities the wasteland ceaselessly bore out.

 

But such was the nature of the wasteland, and forgetting its reality entirely was a luxury neither could afford.

 

And so the trials of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes came to an end…for now. For, across the wasteland and across the globe, blood was still shed, battles fought and victories remained short-lived. People everywhere lived passionately and many died violently—just as they did before the Great War.

 

 

 

Because war…war never changes.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ + + 
> 
> Thank you all so much for subscribing and reading my AU. To date, this is the longest single work I have ever penned and it was worth every strain and effort. I have learned so much over the last several months about my capabilities as a writer and as a fan. I love this pairing and I hope it shows.
> 
> \+ + +

**Author's Note:**

> \+ + + 
> 
> Thank you for bearing with any grammatical errors. I don't have a proofreader and can only rely on my sometimes impatient eyes.
> 
> Also, if you are interested in reading more about the Fallout universe, or are unfamiliar with some of the lingo/jargon, here is a useful wiki: http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Fallout_Wiki


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